Besides the autumn, poets sing

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Besides the autumn, poets sing,
A few prosaic days,
A little this side of the snow,
And that side of the Haze.

A few incisive mornings,
A few ascetic eves,
Gone Mr. Bryants Golden Rod,
And Mr. Thomson's sheaves.

Still is the bustle in the brook,
Sealed are the spicy valves,
Mesmeric fingers softly touch
The eyes of many merry elves.

Perhaps a squirrel may remain
My sentiments to share -
Grant me oh Lord a sunny mind,
Thy windy will to bear.

Emily Dickinson.