The year is withering; the wind
Blows down the leaves
Men stand under eaves
And overhear the secrets
Of the cold dry wind,
Of the half-bare tree.

The grasses are tall and tinted,
Straw-gold hues  of dryness
And the contradicting awryness,
Of the dusty roads a-scatter
With the pools of colourful leaves
With ghosts of the dreaming year.

And soon, soon the fires,
The fires will begin to burn,
The hawk will flutter and turn
On its wings and swoop for the mouse,
The dogs will run for the hare,
The hare for its little life.