ONE day, in sunny Languedoc,
I strayed far up the mountain side,
And, resting on a mossy rock,
Surveyed a landscape autumn-dyed.
The stately poplars' silver sheen,
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Just ripened into russet gray,
Along the fields where peasants glean,
Is dropping from the boughs away.
Far down the valley yellow leaves
And crimson tinge with mellow light
The busy reapers' gathered sheaves,
And sunset gilds the distant height.
A river winds among the hills,
Along whose margin flowerets bloom;
Fairer than gardened daffodils,
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