  Withal there comes a time when summers wane, When from the sunshine something seems withdrawn, And pensive shadows lengthen on the lawn; White bindweed wanders lonely in the lane, The one sweet thing that now unwithered doth remain. But there is beauty in autumnal bough No less than in dear April's dewy leaves, When with its store of golden-girdled sheaves Piled stands the wain where one time passed the plow, And ripened labor reaps fulfillment of its vow. Then, though no more the oblivious cuckoo calls From land to land, nor longer on the spray Of yellowing elm the throstle vaunts his lay, The ringdove's mate, as fades the leaf and falls, Reiterates its note of love that never palls. Though fluttereth still the soul-like lark aloft, There is a quiet in the woodland ways, The retrospective hush of vanished days, And around garden close and orchard croft A something in the air celestially soft. From hamlet roofs blue spires of smoke once more, As dies the day in mist along the dale, And widowed evening weeps behind her veil, From log-replenished ingle heavenward soar, And lamps are early lit, and early latched the door. —Alfred Austin.
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