Late September

The trees are breathing quietly to-day

Of coming Autumn and the Summer over;

Pause of high Summer when the year's at stay

And the wind's sick, that moves now like a lover.

On valley ridges where the beeches cluster,

Or changing ashes set by slopes of plough,

He goes; now sure of heart now in a fluster

Of teasing purpose. Night shall find him grow

To dark strength and relentless-spoiling will.

First he loves baffle streams and dull the bright;

Cower and threaten both about the hill --

Before their death trees blast in full delight.