So grey the cloud,
Sweeping the grass with ephemeral diamonds,
While flocking gulls sweep the river,
Calling to lost souls.
So heavy hangs the sky, so dull,
Fumbling with gentle fingers,
Consolation dropping slow and damp.
No colour left of autumn in the leaves,
And crows bob, black and sleek,
Amid the scattered cloud-wealth.
But there is beauty in the hues that cloak the skies,
Changing with the winds, the rising of the tides,
Every black and brittle tree has its robin,
Every bitter day its ending.