THE beech leaves caught in a moment gust Run like bowled pennies in the autumn's dust And topple; frost like rain Comes spangling down; through the prismy trees Phoebus mistakes our horse for his, Such glory clothes his mane. The stream makes his glen music alone And plays upon shell and pot and stone -- Our life's after-refrain; Till in the sky the tower's old song Reads us the hour, and reads it wrong, And carter-like comes whistling along Our casual Anglian train. |