When Chill November's Surly Blast Made Fields

If There's Another World, He Lives In Bliss; If There Is None, He Made The Best Of This.

Painters And Poets Have Liberty To Lie.

All-cheering Plenty, With Her Flowing Horn, Led Yellow Autumn, Wreath'd With Nodding Corn.

When Chill November's Surly Blast Made Fields And Forests Bare.

Not The Bee Upon The Blossom, In The Pride O' Sunny Noon; Not The Little Sporting Fairy, All Beneath The Simmer Moon; Not The Poet, In The Moment Fancy Lightens In His E'e, Kens The Pleasure, Feels The Rapture, That Thy Presence Gi'es To Me.