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Updated: May 3, 2025
When the scythes-man o'er his sheaf, Caroll'd in the yellow vale, Sad, I saw thee, heedless leaf, Love the dalliance of the gale. Lightly didst thou, poor fond thing! Heave and flutter to his sighs While the flatterer on his wing, Woo'd, and whisper'd thee to rise. Gaily from thy mother stalk Wert thou danced and wafted high; Soon on this unsheltered walk, Hung to fade, and rot, and die!
I proceeded, therefore, towards London in a fine morning, no way uneasy about tomorrow, but chearful as the birds that caroll'd by the road, and comforted myself with reflecting that London was the mart where abilities of every kind were sure of meeting distinction and reward.
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