Autumn.
Low lines of leaden clouds sweep by1
Across the gold sun and blue sky,2
Which still are there eternally.3
Over the sodden garden bed4
Droop empty flower-stalks, dry and dead,5
Where the tall lily bent its head6
Over carnations white and red.7
The leafless poplars, straight and tall,8
Stand by the grey-green garden wall,9
From which such rare fruit used to fall.10
In the verandah, where of old11
Sweet August spent the roses’ gold,12
Round the chill pillars, shivering, fold13
Garlands of rose-thorns sharp with cold14
And we, by cosy fireside, muse15
On what the Fates grant, what refuse ;16
And what we waste, and what we use.17
Summer returns—despite the rain18
That weeps against the window pane.19
Who’d weep—’mid fame and golden gain—20
For youth, that does not come again ?21