Poems (Mary Coleridge)/Poem 109

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CIX SEPTEMBER
Now every day the bracken browner grows,  Even the purple stars  Of clematis, that shone about the bars,Grow browner; and the little autumn rose  Dons, for her rosy gown,  Sad weeds of brown.
Now falls the eve; and ere the morning sun,  Many a flower her sweet life will have lost,  Slain by the bitter frost,Who slays the butterflies also, one by one;  The tiny beasts  That go about their business and their feasts.
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