LORENZO DE MEDICIS TO HIS LAST AUTUMN.
(1491.)
Now falls the autumn in a rain of gold
And makes a very Danaë of Earth,
Whose breast, beneath the yellow leaves, gives birth
To scented sighs as hers 'neath Jove of old.
And golden vapour fills each mountain fold,
And warmth and ripeness fill the broad land's girth,
Ere old November cower by the hearth
To warm his hands that tremble with the cold.
But I, whose autumn cometh premature,
From these Careggi windows mutely gaze
On yonder towered Florence through the pure
October air, just tinged with golden haze;
And see alone the tomb, where, cold and sure,
Eternal Winter waits me some few days.
