Now leafy winds are blowing cold, <br />And South by West the sun goes down, <br />A quiet huddles up the fold <br />In sheltered corners of the brown. <br /> <br />Like scattered fire the wild fruit strews <br />The ground beneath the blowing tree, <br />And there the busy squirrel hews <br />His deep and secret granary. <br /> <br />And when the night comes starry clear, <br />The lonely quail complains beside <br />The glistening waters on the mere <br />Where widowed Beauties yet abide. <br /> <br />And I, too, make my own complaint <br />Upon a reed I plucked in June, <br />And love to hear it echoed faint <br />Upon another heart in tune.<br /><br />Francis Ledwidge<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/autumn-135/
