Among the signs of autumn I perceive
The Roman wormwood (called by learned men
Ambrosia elatior, food for gods,-
For to impartial science the humblest weed
Is as immortal once as the proudest flower-)
Sprinkles its yellow dust over my shoes
As I cross the now neglected garden.
-We trample under foot the food of gods
And spill their nectar in each dropp of dew-
My honest shoes, fast friends that never stray
Far from my couch, thus powdered, countryfied,
Bearing many a mile the marks of their adventure,
At the post-house disgrace the Gallic gloss
Of those well dressed ones who no morning dew
Nor Roman wormwood ever have been through,
Who never walk but are transported rather-
For what old crime of theirs I do not gather.