Frances Anne Kemble (1809–1893)

I HEAR a voice low in the sunset woods;

Listen, it says: “Decay, decay, decay.”

I hear it in the murmuring of the floods,

And the wind sighs it as it flies away.

Autumn is come; seest thou not in the skies

The stormy light of his fierce, lurid eyes?

Autumn is come; his brazen feet have trod,

Withering and scorching, o’er the mossy sod.

The fainting year sees her fresh flowery wreath

Shrivel in his hot grasp; his burning breath,

Dries the sweet water-springs that in the shade

Wandering along, delicious music made.

A flood of glory hangs upon the world,

Summer’s bright wings shining ere they are furled.