Now in the woodlands from the creaking boughs

The last sere leaves are loosened and unstrung,

Where once the tender honeysuckle clung,

And the fond mavis fluted to his spouse.

Already dreaming of her winter drowse,

And brooding dimly on her unborn young,

The dormouse rakes the beechmast, and among

The matted roots the moldwarp paws and ploughs.

Over the furrows brown and pastures grey

The melancholy plovers flap and ‘plain;

And, along shivering pool and sodden lane,

As lower droop the lids of dying day,

Like to a disembodied soul in pain,

The homeless wind goes wailing all the way.