  THE ash-berry clusters are darkly red; The leaves of the limes are almost shed; The passion-flower hangs out her yellow fruit; The sycamore puts on her brownest suit. After a silence, the wind complains, Like a creature longing to burst its chains; The swallows are gone, I saw them gather, I heard them murmuring of the weather. The clouds move fast, the south is blowing, The sun is slanting, the year is going; O I love to walk where the leaves lie dead, And hear them rustle beneath my tread! |
|
