Harvest is over in mist and moist moonlight,
Drenched are the hedgerows that droop overgrown;
Only the apple-garth broods on the sunlight
Swift Summer spent on its blossom far-blown.
Spring's deep fulfilment now wavers and lessens:
O, as the fruit falls from slim sprays uptossed
Falls the last stave of the song of green seasons,
Bloomful and fruitful and hopeful and lost.

Twilight to twilight has changed, muted greenly,
While we have wrought in the branches on high;
Night-dews are stirring the hidden leaves thinly
Ere on our brown feet the dawn-dews are dry.
Mounded for cider the green fruit and golden
Pales in the green light that shivers to grey....
Listen, in cool tones long falling, long holden,
Moonset-faintvoices call "Come. Comeaway."...

Lift then the frails heaped with gold fruit and sanguid,
Bend down the dim boughs that sweep down our hair;
Over our slow feet the aftermath languid
Trails and then parts, sighing starless and sere.
Out from dusk tree-tops low Summer-far noises,
Autumn's last dove-songs, mid leaf-fallings come
Slow as the voices, O soft as the voices,
Sweet as the voices a-calling us home.

Sleep-time is soon when the land makes us weary;
While in the sleep-light the garden lies still,
Ruined and passionless, sodden and dreary,
Rain-ruffled roses and wind-blossoms chill.
Sleep-ripe we loiter and linger and hearken,
Sad for the sounds and the scents well-nigh passed,
Sad with the thought how the fair world shall darken
Joy-worn and grave to its sleep-time at last.