 | Poems |  |
[The leaves are sere, and on the ground]
The leaves are sere, and on the ground
They rustle with an eerie sound,
A sound half-whisper and half-sigh—
The plaint of sweet things fain to die,
Sad things for which no ruth is found.
They rustle with an eerie sound,
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The plaint of sweet things fain to die,
Sad things for which no ruth is found.
With summer once the land was crowned;
But now that autumn scatters round
Decay, and summer fancies die,
The leaves are sere.
But now that autumn scatters round
Decay, and summer fancies die,
The leaves are sere.
Once, too, my thought within the bound
Of summer frolicked, like a hound
In meadows jocund with July.
Yet now I sit and wonder why,
With all my waste of penny and pound,
The leaves are sere.
Of summer frolicked, like a hound
In meadows jocund with July.
Yet now I sit and wonder why,
With all my waste of penny and pound,
The leaves are sere.
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