COUNTRY THOUGHT FROM A TOWN (i)

Averted from myself I walk up and down— I see how in the light of the arc-lamps The trees look stricken and brown. Autumn is an unkindly thing In a town. The leaves fall aimlessly; Frustrated in their decay, With scraps of paper and bus-tickets They will be swept away. All the mortality in me Yearns to go Somewhere alone into the country, Where elms stand in the hedgerow; Through fields completed and contented To walk to and fro— To hear leaves falling Like a quiet breath; To be a partaker In their death.