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.

Poem dated: Londonderry, September 29th, 1916.This poem taken from "Last Songs" by Francis Ledwidge, Published by Herbert Jenkins, London 1918 page 22-23checked and verified JS