Change

There's a cloud upon the sky
There's a voice upon the air.
'Tis the wind that with a sigh
Stays awhile and hushes by,
Mourning where the trushes were,
Mourning that the trees are bare.

All the leaves have fallen slow:
Now they rustle on the ground,
Crinkle-tip and russet glow,
Yellow leaf and brown they go
With a little withered sound,
Flitting on the air around.

All the birds have gone away,
All the daisies too have fled:
Buttercups have had their day,
And the grass is turning grey
Thinking of the pansy dead,
And the poppy's sleepy head.

Sad and sad the breezes blow.
Leaves are lifted up and thrown
— Crinkle-tip and russet glow —
Withered to the earth below.
Death's the harvest, Death alone.
What's the use in having grown?


The Lonely God, and Other Poems [1909]