THE leaves are falling; so am I;
The few late flowers have moisture in the eye;
So have I too.
Scarcely on any bough is heard
Joyous, or even unjoyous, bird
The whole wood through.
Winter may come: he brings but nigher
His circle (yearly narrowing) to the fire
Where old friends meet.
Let him; now heaven is overcast,
And spring and summer both are past,
And all things sweet.
Listen to this poem |
Read by Peter Yearsley · Source: Librivox.org |
About the poet |
Walter Savage Landor |
By the same poet |
The Maid's Lament |
Rose Aylmer |
Ianthe |
Twenty Years hence |
Verse |
Proud Word you never spoke |
Resignation |
Mother, I cannot mind my Wheel |
Autumn |
Remain! |
Absence |
Of Clementina |
Ianthe's Question |
On Catullus |
Dirce |
Alciphron and Leucippe |
Years |
Separation |
Finis |
Related books |
Walter Savage Landor at amazon.co.uk |