Autumn

Neglect that one cannot restore
Nor add a gentler air to balm
The rending and the cutting edge of wind
The supple leaf to harm

Erect against the littered rock
The rigid heather pinks with cold
And scentless in their stubbled mass
Speak softly to the passing old.

Songs that once possessed the air
Have fled in haste to hide their fears,
Yellow to its sun-lit heart the Oak
Shines forth to shed dry tears.

Painted all, but so short-lived,
For well we know the best is brief,
As Autumn turns upon the bough
To scattered shreds and pale relief.