Withered in the sun


Sweet chesnuts brown, like soleing leather turn, 
The larch trees, like the colour of the sun, 
That paled sky in the Autumn seem'd to burn. 
What a strange scene before us now does run, 
Red, brown, & yellow, russet black, & dun, 
White thorn, wild cherry, & the poplar bare, 
The sycamore all withered in the sun, 
No leaves are now upon the birch tree there.

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