The lilys withered chalice falls Around its rod of dusty gold, And from the beech trees on the wold The last wood-pigeon coos and calls. The gaudy leonine sunflower Hangs black and barren on its stalk, And down the windy garden walk The dead leaves scatter,hour by hour. Pale privet-petals white as milk Are blown into a snowy mass; The roses lie upon the grass, Like little shreds of crimson silk.