Late Autumn
October - and the skies are cool and grayO'er stubbles emptied of their latest sheaf,Bare meadow, and the slowly falling leaf.The dignity of woods in rich decayAccords full well with this majestic griefThat clothes our solemn purple hills to-day,Whose afternoon is hush'd, and wintry briefOnly a robin sings from any spray.
And night sends up her pale cold moon, and spillsWhite mist around the hollows of the hills,Phantoms of firth or lake; the peasant seesHis cot and stockyard, with the homestead trees,Islanded; but no foolish terror thrillsHis perfect harvesting; he sleeps at ease.
Sign in to like, rate and collect poems, and keep track of what you've read.