How well I know what I mean to do / When the long, dark autumn-evenings come.

Autumn wins you best by this, its mute Appeal to sympathy for its decay.

Earth's crammed with heaven, And every common bush afire with God; And only he who sees takes off his shoes; The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries.

I trust in nature for the stable laws of beauty and utility. Spring shall plant and autumn garner to the end of time.

And after April, when May follows, / And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!

That country where it is always turning late in the year. That country where the hills are fog and the rivers are mist; where noons go quickly, dusks and twilights linger, and midnights stay. That country composed in the main of cellars, sub-cellars, coal-bins, closets, attics, and pantries faced away from the sun. That country whose people are autumn people, thinking only autumn thoughts. Whose people passing at night on the empty walks sound like rain.