“I know the year is dying, soon the summer will be dead.
I can trace it in the flying of the black crows overhead;
I can hear it in the rustle of the dead leaves as I pass,
And the south wind’s plaintive sighing; through the dry and withered grass.
Ah, ‘tis then I love to wander,
Wander idly and alone.
Listening to the solemn music of sweet nature’s undertone
Wrapped in thoughts I cannot utter,
Dreams my tongue cannot express.
Dreams that match the Autumn’s sadness in their longing tenderness.”
-Mortimer Crane Brown
