DAYS OF AUTUMN 



ONE morning in the hollows of the meadow 

 land below the wood lay a silver mist. The 

 sun sweeping upwards in its curve beat this 

 away towards noon, but it was a sign. The 

 fire of autumn was kindled : already the 

 little notched leaves of the hawthorn were 

 tinged with the rust of decay, already a 

 bramble leaf was turning red : soon the 

 flames would mount the mightier trees and 

 fan their pale heat among the willows and 

 ash trees round the lake, lick among the 

 drooping elms and the lacquered oaks, and 

 sweep in abandonment with yawning fire 

 of colour through the old beech forest. 



Years ago now, in the glamorous time 

 of childhood, this coming of the mist in 

 the morning with its fragrance arising from 

 the earth peculiar to summer's end the 

 fumous, clinging smell of a torch filled 



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