'Cold blows the Autumn wind and drear, From out the lowering west; Low wail the crimson leaves and sere, As if they longed for rest. Upon my heart they seem to fall, And stay its joyful tone, Awaking there a plaintive call-- The echo of their own. O forest leaves, from yonder trees, Borne upon languid wing, You hear not in the wandering breeze, The whisper of the Spring...' ~Mary Morgan, from 'An Autumn Song'
