DAYS OF AUTUMN 173 



and uncaring, for every form of life except 

 those idealists, the bees survived by the 

 death of another form. The declining 

 days with their ebb of warmth killed the 

 million million insects and butterflies whose 

 hum had been so dim and happy in the 

 summer. 



By a dry mossy bank underneath a 

 hedge of bullace in whose unleafed ragged- 

 ness the sere and twisted chords of the 

 traveller's joy had grown, the willow herb 

 flowers were still in bloom when October 

 had yielded most of its blackberries. Below 

 the pink flowers and on the same stem the 

 long pods were splitting and their seeds, 

 swung under down, drifting with the wind. 

 As I watched, a humble bee, numbed with 

 cold sought the sanctuary of a pink flower, 

 clung for a moment swaying, then fell to 

 the moss below and lay still on its side. 

 The hooked legs moved feebly, the wings 

 shivered; no warmth came from the weak 

 sunshine, and so it died. 



