Autumn The autumn flames on the fiery trees, And glassy fields and frosty meads, That speak of all we lose—all these Have solemn sobbing hearts in weeds. \nFor every spot shall late arrive, For here the world shall shrive and stain, As the branches burst, and cease to strive Toward daily death, in golden grain. \nYet here confirm’d the circling sight, In every sense there lies to learn, While brown doth memory covers bright, And gives what nothing will return.

• George Meredith