Today I think 
only with scents, -- scents dead leaves yield,
And bracken, and wild carrot's seed, 
And the square mustard field;

Odours that rise 
When the spade wounds the root of tree,
Rose, currant, raspberry, or goutweed,
Rhubarb or celery;

The smoke's smell, too,
Flowing from where a bonfire burns 
The dead, the waste, the dangerous,
And all to sweetness turns.

It is enough 
To smell, to crumble the dark earth,
While the Robin sings over again
Sad songs of Autumn mirth.