Lovely shock of plain brown!
Light leafage all down.
Bald, big in the branches the cliff-rocks recur.
With earth we are chilling; with her and in her
Our autumn, more true with each year — and each
         spring
Less near to our story, less true. (What is true?)
Bitter blue
Radiant death! Small death, in moth-wing,
Light as leaves, light as wishes, to lie on leaf-mould…
And cool goes to cold,
And gold dims to gloom.
Shucks rattle, the thistle is thin on its stem.
We see something never to alter in them.
How hard for the poet to write in his room
With the pull of the seasons on all he pretends,
While the gold washes faint and the plaint of the wee
Invisible cricket crescendos and ends.