THE LEAVES ARE SERE.
The leaves are sere, and on the ground
They rustle with an eerie sound,
A sound half-whisper and half-sigh—
The plaint of sweet things fain to die,
Poor things for which no ruth is found.
With summer once the land was crowned;
But now that autumn scatters round
Decay, and summer fancies die,
The leaves are sere.
Once, too, my thought within the bound
Of summer frolicked, like a hound
In meadows jocund with July.
And now I sit and wonder why,
With all my waste of plack and pound,
The leaves are sere!
W. E. Henley.