 | The Poems of John Clare |  |
525
AUTUMN
Autumn comes laden with her ripened loadOf fruitage and so scatters them abroad
That the fern-smothered heath and mole-hill waste
Are black with bramble berries—where in haste
The chubby urchins from the village hie
526
While painted woods around my rambles be
In draperies worthy of eternity.
Yet will the leaves soon patter on the ground,
And death's deaf voice awake at every sound:
One drops—then others—and the last that fell
Rings for those left behind their passing-bell.
Thus memory everywhere her tidings brings
How sad death robs us of life's dearest things.
| The Poems of John Clare | |