Autumn

Is it a crooked tree That troubles the ground,
Or is it a big hatch-moth That flaps on the roof?
I look at the broken branches
And the bare roots And the green turns brown,
Like all that is shaken,
And faded away; And as I step,
Little bits of bark fall, And I walk over sod, And the leaves can be When you crumple them.

I feel their silence, Like death in the wind,
And the rustling green
Is a whisper of life As I droop and bend down In the darkened air.

• T E Hulme