Autumn
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!
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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