The brown leaves fall in umber woods,
The trees shake off their gowns;
And all the hues of summer’s moods
Are mellowing to browns;
And all the gleams of passion die
Into a russet evening sky.
The sea is dun, the cliffs are dark,
The shore is sepia sand;
The fingers of the autumn mark
Their legend on the land.
And all my summer zeal and zest
I store for winter in my breast.
The sheaves are browning in the stooks,
The fields are shorn and bare;
The clouds are smudged with homing rooks,
And wood-smoke stains the air.
Now all my thoughts come back to sleep
As round and brown as folded sheep.