To the Poet

Sterling North

Over the pale shoulders of marble
The trees throw down a shower of golden leaves;
On lichen-painted boughs the last birds warble,
And the wind grieves.

All night the wild teal, mallard and widgeon whistle
Over my rooftop in a gale of wings;
The hoofbeat of the hunter rings
On frosty thoroughfares. Light as a thistle
The white swan glides, and desolately sings.