AUTUMN 



The winds, all summer idly dead, 

 Give prelude to their winter tune. 



Grey hoarfrost hears them, from his bed 

 Lays out white hands, and wakens soon. 



He laughs as soughing elm-trees shed 

 Old homes of breeding rooks in June. 



But as a rule the poets are 

 content with mood ; and doubtless 

 they know best. Perhaps the mood 

 of autumn is melancholy for all its 

 beauty. The mists are heavy when 

 we awake. The dews hang on the 

 webs and gossamers. The days 

 grow shorter. The jolly green 

 vanishes into the colours of a sort 

 of disease. The birds begin to 

 grow silent, the sweetest singers 

 and the most splendid flyers are 

 clean gone. The insects vanish to 

 their tombs, if they be not cradles. 

 The nipping frosts cut and destroy. 

 Winter clearly comes. Yet in tern- <THE HONEY SUCKLE is IN LEAF' 

 perate England this winter is such a poor affair that birds 

 and flowers scarcely dread it. Autumn and spring join 



