Au t u m nby Arthur Stahlschmidt.Decoration by H. K. Cranmer.THE long sweep of the wind across the moor,The cry of plover bird on flapping wing,The faded grass and bracken near the shoreOf the deserted pond where robins used to sing.No cricket voice; no cheery summer sound,Naught save the sweeping of the wind among the naked boughsAnd rustle of dead leaves along the barren ground.
by Arthur Stahlschmidt.
Decoration by H. K. Cranmer.
THE long sweep of the wind across the moor,The cry of plover bird on flapping wing,The faded grass and bracken near the shoreOf the deserted pond where robins used to sing.No cricket voice; no cheery summer sound,Naught save the sweeping of the wind among the naked boughsAnd rustle of dead leaves along the barren ground.
THE long sweep of the wind across the moor,The cry of plover bird on flapping wing,The faded grass and bracken near the shoreOf the deserted pond where robins used to sing.No cricket voice; no cheery summer sound,Naught save the sweeping of the wind among the naked boughsAnd rustle of dead leaves along the barren ground.
T
HE long sweep of the wind across the moor,
The cry of plover bird on flapping wing,
The faded grass and bracken near the shore
Of the deserted pond where robins used to sing.
No cricket voice; no cheery summer sound,
Naught save the sweeping of the wind among the naked boughs
And rustle of dead leaves along the barren ground.