HERE then I draw my linked rein;
These months have filled the farmer's wain,
Filled too my small portfolio,
I need not wait the threatening snow:
Already on the steep Goatfell
Forebodingly we mark it well,
And leafless is the garden Bower,
Shed is every gentle flower.
The swallows have gone south, we too
Will go, and to these verses new
I add some old ones, one or two.
'Tis said what's new is seldom true,
And what is true can scarce be new.
I hope indeed it is not so,
But year by year fresh flowers shall blow,
For poets still to bring to you.