Transcript

0:00
Speaker 1: Autumn, the thistledowns flying, though the winds are all still,
0:05
Speaker 1: on the green grass now lying, now mounting the hill.
0:09
Speaker 1: The spring from the fountain now boils like a pot.
0:12
Speaker 1: Through stones past the counting, it bubbles red-hot. The ground,
0:17
Speaker 1: parched and cracked, is like overbaked bread. The greensward all
0:22
Speaker 1: racked is, bent, dried up, and dead. The fallow fields
0:26
Speaker 1: glitter like water indeed, and gossamers twitter, flung from weed
0:31
Speaker 1: unto weed. Hilltops like hot iron glitter bright in the sun,
0:36
Speaker 1: and the rivers we're eyeing burn to gold as they run.
0:39
Speaker 1: Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is the air.
0:43
Speaker 1: Whoever looks round sees eternity there.