With the abandon of a leaf he lies
Below the laurel leaves that never fall.
And summer still reflected from his eyes,
Sees how the light stands pale against the wall,
And through the silence, as the late lark flies,
Hears the heraldic beasts of England call.
Time like the water in a river flows
Around him, and around the autumn rose.
The grass is gold, though not with youth but age;
The famous colours stream across the hill,
As when the rainbow kings would disengage
Their thoughts from gardens and be huntsmen still.
He dreams, until the wind has turned the page
Of what he reads, until he feels the chill:
For crowns once cast in ponds are twined with sedge,
And winter waits within the hawthorn hedge.