FRAIL autumn lights upon the leaves
Beacon the ending of the year.
The windy rains are here,
Wet nights and blowing winds about the eaves.

Here in the valley, mists begin
To breathe about the river side
The breath of autumn-tide.
The dark fields wait to take the harvest in.

And you, and you are far away.
Ah, this it is, and not the rain
Now loud against the pane,
That takes the light and colour from the day!