AUTUMN

I know her not by fallen leaves

Or resting heaps of hay;

Or by the sheathing mists of mauve

That soothe the fiery day.

I know her not by plumping nuts,

By redded hips and haws,

Or by the silence hanging sad

Under the wind's sere pause.

But by her sighs I know her well —

They are like Sorrow's breath;

And by this longing, strangely still,

For something after death.