Autumn in Prison
Here where no tree changes,
Here in a prison of pine,
I think how Autumn ranges
The country that is mine.
There — rust upon the chill breeze-
The woodland leaf now whirls ;
There sway the yellowing birches
Like dainty dancing girls.
Oh, how the leaves are dancing
With Death at Lassington !
And Death is now enhancing
Beauty I walked upon.
The roads with leaves are Uttered,
Yellow, brown, and red.
The homes where robins twittered
Lie ruin ; but instead
Gaunt arms of stretching giants
Stand in the azure air,
Cutting the sky in pattern
So common, yet so fair,
The heart is kindled by it.
And lifted as with wine.
In Lassington and Highnam—
The woodlands that were mine,
poem by Frederick William Harvey
Added by Poetry Lover
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