Cold lies the earth of passing autumn,

Whereon the spindly legs of corn

Rest severed, stubbled, rigid, rotting,

Where once the fields that did adorn.

Now the spiders' silken, anchored threads,

Oft’ float upon the suspiring breeze,

Before the first marmoreal frosts

Cause fields to lie and simply freeze.

Within the orchard, the summers’ wasps

Have mined the seams of ripened fruit,

But the best apples now lie in the store,

While the waspy coals lie round the root.

The sheep, as limpets beside the wall,

Shelter from the sheeting, blinding rain,

Whilst cattle are bedded in the shed,

Beneath the tin roof’s wet refrain.

Without, tongues of smoke up from the logs

Snake their twisting, silent way

Across the empty, hungry autumn fields,

As the sun sinks down to close the day.