The wood where we have played these years Is now so still and pale; The moonlight shines in cold clear spheres, And brings a ghostly trail. The sunny slope we did not see Beyond the river reed; The grassy knoll was good and free; The grey moss hung like weed. And now the autumn time is here, The golden leaves are folded back, Yet still I sit, and muse and fear The winter’s lightless track.

• Sarah Orne Jewett