The rain that bode their great censure,
Did not expect our seasons change,
And though revolt was not their cure,
They held their leaves throughout the range.

For trees to keep their dying leaves,
Upon the boughs in such late year,
As through the ground the moles did weave,
How strange is this? Said I in fear.

An oddity to be sure,
The end of Fall would soon be here,
For blithe and bright to endure,
It forced my show an eying leer.

The crimson that surrounded them,
Like a spot of blue among clouds,
Made green stand out to me, a man,
And I gazed at them still in doubt,

This told me of a passion great,
A lesson to a man of days,
A thing to learn no time to late,
The simplest thing may revolt in ways.

To see something, commonly idle,
Break out in such passion and craze,
Showed me that rebels may sit a while,
And thus I question my humanly gaze.