Autumn

Stern Time hath banished with a frown
    The summer, now grown wan and old;
In grief the woodlands lay adown
          Their crowns of gold.

No more the copses echo round
    With stockdove's moan and woodwren's lay;
To gladden distant shores with sound
          They wing their way.

The wild winds shudder thro' the trees,
    Where late the redstart's carol rang;
The torn nests wanton with the breeze
          Where sweet birds sang.

The sere, sad leaves, their glory done,
    Fall from the bough to meet the wave;
The stream they shadowed from the sun
          Gives them a grave.