Autumn

Stern Time hath banished with a frown The summer, now grown wan and old; In grief the woodlands lay adown Their crowns of gold. No more the copses echo round With stockdove's moan and woodwren's lay; To gladden distant shores with sound They wing their way. The wild winds shudder thro' the trees, Where late the redstart's carol rang; The torn nests wanton with the breeze Where sweet birds sang. The sere, sad leaves, their glory done, Fall from the bough to meet the wave; The stream they shadowed from the sun Gives them a grave.