These autumn gardens, russet, gray and brown, 
The sward with shrivelled foliage strown, 
The shrubs and trees 
By weary wings of sunshine overflown 
And timid silences,—

Since first you, darling, called my spirit yours, 
Seem happy, and the gladness pours 
From day to day, 
And yester-year across this year endures 
Unto next year away. 

Now in these places where I used to rove 
And give the dropping leaves my love 
And weep to them, 
They seem to fall divinely from above, 
Like to a diadem 

Closing in one with the disheartened flowers. 
High up the migrant birds in showers 
Shine in the sky, 
And all the movement of the natural hours 
Turns into melody.