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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