The primrose and the violet,

The bloom on apricot and peach,

The marriage-song of larks in heights,

The south wind and the swallow’s nest;

All born of spring, I once loved best.

But now the dying leaf and flower,

The frost wind moaning in the pane,

The robin’s plaintive latter song,

The early sunset in the west;

All born of autumn, I love best.

Tell me, my heart, the reason why

Thy pulse thus beats with things that die;

Is it thine own autumnal sheaves?

Is it thine own dead fallen leaves?