Flowers are dead,
Leaves are shed,
Buds a-bed,
Finches fled;
Only the earth remains,
And the long, grey, whispering rains,
Bleaching the autumn stains.
Soon these, too, will go
And then—the snow.

Summer is gone;
But lingers on
Her sweet song,
All winter long,
In bars of clover scent—
Breathing its love unspent
Through pipes broken and bent.