by Robert Laurence Binyon
Beautifully dies the year.
Silence sleeps upon the mere:
Yellow leaves float on it, stilly
As, in June, the opened lily.
Brushing o'er the frosty grass
I watch a moment, ere I pass,
From beeches that will soon be bare
Down the still November air
The lovely ways of gliding leaves.
Perhaps they budded on Spring eves
When we two walked and talked together!
Autumn thoughts for Autumn weather!
I wish some days that I remember
Could glide from me, this fair November.
Last updated September 20, 2015