There 's revel in the withered close;
The wind of Autumn wakes and blows.
Now it laughs, and now it grieves;
Weird the measure that it weaves
For the dances of the yellow leaves.

The sad grass pale and paler grows,
Gray Death, from vale to hill he goes;
Still the wind, it half deceives:
Weird the measure that it weaves
For the dances of the dying leaves.