The rusting trees are packed in cotton wool.
The green of summer yields to red and gold.
The car parks in the villages are full.
The oldest stories wait to be retold.
Girls in gloves and scarves are feeling cosy.
Every young man knows this is the chance
to ripen, like a swollen plum, his nerve
and pluck one lady to the harvest dance,
sweep her with vigour till her face is rosy,
charm her ears till he wins what he knows he
does not, in all honesty, deserve.


The birds and woodland creatures gather food
as the connoisseur his winery
for autumn's plenty shall itself denude
the trees of all their golden finery:
the time of mellow fruitfulness and mists
surrenders, all too soon, to winter's chill
and old leaves, of a sudden, reappear
with tales for folks to make their babes be still.
Once more they'll say that Santa Claus exists;
their children will address the Christmas lists
and Jesus Christ be born again this year.


O, that the birds who now depart this isle
would take with them my empty memories
or that the wind would carry back her smile
that shielded so my heart from injuries;
but now the swallows gather and prepare
to leave all dearth behind and far below
and fly to happier lands across the sea
where warmer and more joyful breezes blow.
Farewell then lovers! May your winds be fair!
Fly from my sad world and my heart's despair
which, like the leaves, I wish would fall from me.