In these Autumns are the tenors of decomposition…
'Twixt tufted fells and golden fens.
Under the deadfalls leaflets crumble...
'Neath loam and moss and fragile peat.
Gravel, road and moore...they silver…
O’er, pon, upside, and down
The glens turn gold...the valleys wither
Sauf evergreen no copse be spared
Each gilded cycle aged tumbles…
‘Spite how we wish the summers last
These Autumns...heralds all, we wonder…
Ayond, the Winter’s come to pass