Now all our English woodland sighs "October."

The mild sun going down behind the trees

Doth bless a countryside as sweet and sober

As ever put on brown and red to please;

The brooks run blood, but 'tis such blood as Heav'n,

Piercèd with light, lets fall on field and village;

England's dear breasts are still unbruised, unriv'n

The autumn peace on pastureland and tillage.

Dear mother of us all, hast thou not heard?

Thou knowest how thy sons, our brothers, died

Of late, and hast thou not a sorrowful word?

O no! Thou dost contain thyself in pride.

Pity suits not for those, who guarding thee

Guard more than their own lives, for those at sea.