IMPOSTOR
Reading edition
This Autumn of the yellow lanes Is come a sorry vagabond, Grown tearful now and over-fond Of grey and melancholy rains. He loves his griefs and broken sighs, His sorrows of a thousand years,— And thinks we do not know those tears Are wood-smoke in his eyes. If leaves go by us in a gust, He needs must clutch his heart, and say: "Alas" or else "Alack-a-day"— And thinks we take it all on trust. So sad and sad a rake he is!— And yet so glad of being sad, Knowing no fellow ever had Such fine, becoming griefs as his.