Sycamore Wood

Nothing brings in an autumn like the breeze
That sways the maples into shedding keys.

Summer is done before one wing is down.
It only needs a murmur in the crown

Of some or other sycamore nearby
And what I have of instinct takes my eye

Up to the highest green shot through with cloud
Where rooks unnumbered caw their minds aloud

And sure enough there is a sort of snow—
A taste of things to come for those below.