Autumn

Autumn comes laden with her ripened load

Of fruitage and so scatters them abroad

That each fern-smothered heath and mole-hill waste

Are black with bramble berries--where in haste

The chubby urchins from the village hie

To feast them there, stained with the purple dye;

While painted woods around my rambles be

In draperies worthy of eternity.

Yet will the leaves soon patter on the ground,

And death's deaf voice awake at every sound:

One drops--then others--and the last that fell

Rings for those left behind their passing bell.

Thus memory every where her tidings brings

How sad death robs us of life's dearest things.