Neath the old oaks mossed and grey
Whose shadows seem as old as they
Where time hath many seasons won
Since aught beneath them saw the sun
Within these bramble solitudes
The ragged noisy boy intrudes
To gather nuts that ripe and brown
As soon as shook will patter down
Thus harvest ends its busy reign
And leaves the fields their peace again
Where autumns shadows idly muse
And tinge the trees with many hues
Amid whose scenes I'm feign to dwell
And sing of what I love so well
But hollow winds and tumbling floods
And humming showers and moaning woods
All startle into sudden strife
And wake a mighty lay to life
Making amid their strains divine
All songs in vain as mean as mine.
A quick post to get September's excerpt from The Shepherd's Calendar in before it's too late. For those of you who are keen naturalists I do realise that the venerable tree at the start of the poem is a beech and not an oak but it's such a wonderful old tree that I decided to use a little poetic licence:)