Autumn

Now leafy winds are blowing cold, And South by West the sun goes down, A quiet huddles up the fold In sheltered corners of the brown. Like scattered fire the wild fruit strews The ground beneath the blowing tree, And there the busy squirrel hews His deep and secret granary. And when the night comes starry clear, The lonely quail complains beside The glistening waters on the mere Where widowed Beauties yet abide. And I, too, make my own complaint Upon a reed I plucked in June, And love to hear it echoed faint Upon another heart in tune.