Robert Burns, 1788
The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill,|
Concealing the course of the dark-winding rill;
How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear!
As Autumn to Winter resigns the pale year.
2. The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown,
3. How long I have liv'd-but how much liv'd in vain,|
How little of life's scanty span may remain,
What aspects old Time in his progress has worn,
What ties cruel Fate, in my bosom has torn.
4. How foolish, or worse, till our summit is gain'd!
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