When reeds are dead and a straw to thatch the marshes,Â
And feathered pampas-grass rides into the windÂ
Like agèd warriors westward, tragic, thinnedÂ
Of half their tribe, and over the flattened rushes,Â
Stripped of its secret, open, stark and bleak,Â
Blackens afar the half-forgotten creek–Â
Then leans on me the weight of the year, and crushesÂ
My heart. I know that Beauty must ail and die,Â
And will be born again–but ah, to seeÂ
Beauty stiffened, staring up at the sky!Â
Oh, Autumn! Autumn!–What is the Spring to me?
