I have been through the woods
And the leaves were falling,
Summer had crept away,
And the birds were not calling.
And the bracken was like yellow
That comes too late,
When the heart is sad and old,
And death at the gate.
Ah, mournful Autumn !
Sad,
Slow death that comes at last,
I am mad for a yesterday, mad !
I am sick for a year that is past!
Though the sun be like blood in the
He is cold as the lips of hate,
And he fires the sere leaves as they
On their bed of earth, too late.
They are dead, and the bare trees
Not loud as a mortal weeping,
But as sorrow that sighs in sleep,
And as grief that is still in sleeping.
Taken from the New Adelphi Library edition of 'Selected Poems' by Lord Arthur Douglas Published by Martin Secker
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