There is no break in all the wide grey sky, <br />Nor light on any field, and the wind grieves, <br />And talks of death. Where cold grey waters lie <br />Round greyer stones, and the new-fallen leaves <br />Heap the chill hollows of the naked woods, <br />A lisping moan, an inarticulate cry, <br />Creeps far among the charnel solitudes, <br />Numbing the waste with mindless misery. <br />In these bare paths, these melancholy lands, <br />What dream, or flesh, could ever have been young? <br />What lovers have gone forth with linked hands? <br />What flowers could ever have bloomed, what birds have sung? <br />Life, hopes, and human things seem wrapped away, <br />With shrouds and spectres, in one long decay.<br /><br />Archibald Lampman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-autumn-waste/
