When every leaf has different hue
And flames of birch trees blow,
And high against November blue
The white cloud's bent in bow;

When buzzard hawk wheels in the sun,
And bracken crowns the Cleave,
And autumn stains the heather dun,
And wan buds make believe;

When droning thresher hums its song
And tale of harvest proves,
And rusty steers the lane-ways throng,
And grey birds flit in droves;

Then bird, and beast, and every tree
And those few flowers that blow,
Against the winter hearten me
Who would no winter know!
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