Late Leaves
by: Walter Savage Landor (1775-1864)
The leaves are falling; so am I;
The few late flowers have moisture in the eye;
So have I too.
Scarcely on any bough is heard
Joyous, or even unjoyous, bird
The whole wood through.
Winter may come: he brings but nigher
His circle (yearly narrowing) to the fire
Where old friends meet.
Let him; now heaven is overcast,
And spring and summer both are past,
And all things sweet.
|
Years
Twenty Years Hence
Autumn
Mother, I Cannot Mind My Wheel
Proud Word You Never Spoke
Rose Aylmer
Absence
Separation
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