When cold November sits among the reeds like an unlucky fisher

And ducks drum up as sudden as the wind

Our of rushy river,

We slowly come, robbed of our rod and gun,

Walking amid the stricken cages of the trees.

The stormy weeks have all gone home like drunken hunters,

Leaving the gates of the grey world wide open to December.

But now there is no speech of branches in these broken jails.

Acorns lie over the earth, no less neglected

Than our unrecognizable regret:

And here we stand as senseless as the oaks,

As dumb as elms.

And though we seem as grave as jailers, yet we did not come to wonder

Who picked the locks of the past days, and stole our summer.

(We are no longer listeners for curious saws, and secret keys!)

We are indifferent to seasons, And stand like hills, deaf.

And never hear the last of the escaping year

Go ducking through the bended branches like a leaf.