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 drop 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.