Autumn that name of creeper falling and tea-time loving,
Was once for me the thought of High Cotswold noon-air,
And the earth smell, turning brambles, and half-cirrus moving,
Mixed with the love of body and travel of good turf there.
O up in height, O snatcht up O swiftly going,
Common to beechwood, breathing was loving, the yet
Unknown Crickley cliffs trumpeted, set music on glowing
In my mind. White Cotswold, wine scarlet woods and leaf wreckage wet.