Page:Poems, Meynell, 1921.djvu/27

 IN AUTUMN

HE leaves are many under my feet, And drift one way. Their scent of death is weary and sweet. A flight of them is in the grey Where sky and forest meet.

The low winds moan for dead sweet years; The birds sing all for pain, Of a common thing, to weary ears,— Only a summer's fate of rain, And a woman's fate of tears.

I walk to love and life alone Over these mournful places, Across the summer overthrown, The dead joys of these silent faces, To claim my own.

I know his heart has beat to bright Sweet loves gone by. I know the leaves that die to-night Once budded to the sky, And I shall die from his delight.

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