I know, and the sunset-angel knows,
Painter nor palette could paint the rose,
The bush that tall by the border grows
And waves in the wind to-day!—
Ruby and brown where the green has fled,
Bronzed, and brightened with gold and red,
Purple and amber, so lit and wed
By the sun in the soft blue overhead
And the light wind's careless sway,
That the perfect bloom of its summer flowers
Is poor to the wealth of these autumn hours,
And the richest jewels of Asia's mines
Are pale to the hues of its pendent vines
And the tints of its topmost spray!