(i)
Averted from myself
I walk up and down--
I see how in the light of the arc-lamps
The trees look stricken and brown.
Autumn is an unkindly thing
In a town.
The leaves fall aimlessly;
Frustrated in their decay,
With scraps of paper and bus-tickets
They will be swept away.
All the mortality in me
Yearns to go
Somewhere alone into the country,
Where elms stand in the hedgerow;
Through fields completed and contented
To walk to and fro--
To hear leaves falling
Like a quiet breath;
To be a partaker
In their death.