THE leaves are falling; so am I; 
The few late flowers have moisture in the eye; 
   So have I too. 
Scarcely on any bough is heard 
Joyous, or even unjoyous, bird 
   The whole wood through. 

Winter may come: he brings but nigher 
His circle (yearly narrowing) to the fire 
   Where old friends meet. 
Let him; now heaven is overcast, 
And spring and summer both are past, 
   And all things sweet. 

Added: Apr 8 2005 | Viewed: 431 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Walter Savage Landor
Poem: Late Leaves

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