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Arthur Symons - Autumn
Work rating: Low

There is so little wind at all, 
The last leaves cling, and do not fall 
From the bare branches’ ends; I sit 
Under a tree and gaze at it, 
A slender web against the sky, 
Where a small grey cloud goes by; 
I feel a speechless happiness 
Creep to me out of quietness. 

What is it in the earth, the air, 
The smell of autumn, or the rare 
And half reluctant harmonies 
The mist weaves out of silken skies, 
What is it shuts my brain and brings 
These sleepy dim awakenings, 
Till I and all things seem to be 
Kin and companion to a tree?
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