Here where no tree changes, <br />Here in a prison of pine, <br /> <br />I think how Autumn ranges <br />The country that is mine. <br /> <br />There — rust upon the chill breeze- <br />The woodland leaf now whirls ; <br /> <br />There sway the yellowing birches <br />Like dainty dancing girls. <br /> <br />Oh, how the leaves are dancing <br />With Death at Lassington ! <br /> <br />And Death is now enhancing <br />Beauty I walked upon. <br /> <br />The roads with leaves are Uttered, <br />Yellow, brown, and red. <br /> <br />The homes where robins twittered <br />Lie ruin ; but instead <br /> <br />Gaunt arms of stretching giants <br />Stand in the azure air, <br /> <br />Cutting the sky in pattern <br />So common, yet so fair, <br /> <br />The heart is kindled by it. <br />And lifted as with wine. <br /> <br />In Lassington and Highnam— <br />The woodlands that were mine,<br /><br />Frederick William (FW) Harvey<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/autumn-in-prison/
