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.