The thistledown's flying, though the winds are all still,
On the green grass now lying, now mounting the hill,
The spring from the fountain now boils like a pot;
Through stones past the counting it bubbles red-hot.
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I like this work, a very different way of describing nature. Autumnal air fused with eternity.
He has a different way of seeing Autumn than many of the poets I've been reading. Without diminishing the effect of the others, I do like what he is expressing here.
Very expressive of the heat of nature.Specially the first two lines of the last para is wonderful.
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