Late Leaves By Walter Savage Landor

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.