Walter Savage Landor (1775–1864)

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.