No more wild roses climb among the vines,
Their blooms have fallen, swell the rosy hips,
And grapes, still green, hang where the shy deer slips.
Dusky black the sloes, dogwood and elder bright,
The hawthorn berries glow with russet light,
The hedge prepares for winter’s bleak, cold night.
I walk among the pools of golden sun
And wish this peaceful river never run.