Autumn

I know her not by fallen leaves Or resting heaps of hay; Or by the sheathing mists of mauve That soothe the fiery day.

I know her not by plumping nuts, By redded hips and haws, Or by the silence hanging sad Under the wind's sere pause.

But by her sighs I know her well-- They are like Sorrow's breath; And by this longing, strangely still, For something after death.