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.

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