The Collected Poems of William H. Davies/Autumn

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AUTUMN

Autumn grows old: he, like some simple one,In Summer’s castaway is strangely clad;Such withered things the winds in frolic madShake from his feeble hand and forehead wan.
Autumn is sighing for his early gold,And in his tremble dropping his remains;The brook talks more, as one bereft of brains,Who singeth loud, delirious with the cold.
O now with drowsy June one hour to be!Scarce waking strength to hear the hum of bees,Or cattle lowing under shady trees,Knee deep in waters loitering to the sea.
I would that drowsy June awhile were here,The amorous South wind carrying all the vale—Save that white lily true to star as pale,Whose secret day-dream Phœbus burns to hear.
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