DAYS OF AUTUMN 177 



the frost come early and bind the earth till 

 the sun of March shall solve its graven 

 pattern. 



From the edge of the wood the field 

 slopes downwards to the longpond, now 

 covered with a haze in the sunshine. The 

 rushes fringing its edge are rusted and 

 bent like old Roman swords, the reeds 

 like the spears of ancient Britons, thrown 

 with Arthurs sword, into the lake. By 

 the pebbled shore the water is pure and 

 clear and gloomy, the sunlight showing 

 the moist brown velvet of the leaves upon 

 its bed. Quietly feeding in the centre, a 

 dozen moor-hens send ripples to the side, 

 each wavelet bearing a shifting line of 

 light over the leaves as it travels forward. 

 Yonder the sallows have loosened their slips 

 of leaves and the sunshine throws up their 

 ruddy and yellow wands broken segments 

 of a rainbow trembling by the marge. A 

 wren goes by, a fluttering moth of a bird, 

 silent; sipping and twittering in sweet 



