William Allingham (1824–1889)

NOW Autumn’s fire burns slowly along the woods,

And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt,

And night by night the monitory blast

Wails in the keyhole, telling how it passed

O’er empty fields, or upland solitudes,

Or grim wide wave; and now the power is felt

Of melancholy, tenderer in its moods

Than any joy indulgent Summer dealt.

Dear friends, together in the glimmering eve,

Pensive and glad, with tones that recognize

The soft invisible dew on each one’s eyes,

It may be, somewhat thus we shall have leave

To walk with memory, when distant lies

Poor Earth, where we were wont to live and grieve.