In the golden glade the chestnuts are fallen all; <br />From the sered boughs of the oak the acorns fall: <br />The beech scatters her ruddy fire; <br />The lime hath stripped to the cold, <br />And standeth naked above her yellow attire: <br />The larch thinneth her spire <br />To lay the ways of the wood with cloth of gold. <br /> <br />Out of the golden-green and white Of the brake the fir-trees stand upright <br />In the forest of flame, and wave aloft <br />To the blue of heaven their blue-green tuftings soft. <br /> <br />But swiftly in shuddering gloom the splendours fail, <br />As the harrying North-wind beareth <br />A cloud of skirmishing hail <br />The grieved woodland to smite: <br />In a hurricane through the trees he teareth, <br />Raking the boughs and the leaves rending, <br />And whistleth to the descending <br />Blows of his icy flail. <br />Gold and snow he mixeth in spite, <br />And whirleth afar; as away on his winnowing flight <br />He passeth, and all again for ahile is bright.<br /><br />Robert Seymour Bridges<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/north-wind-in-october/
