Autumn In The Woods Poem by Paul Reed

"The last of the light of the sun
That had died in the west
Still lived for one song more
In a thrush's breast. "
From ‘Come In' by Robert Frost

The earth is huddled in passionate fall
The twigs and boughs are bared
The thrush no longer in tuneful call
We know not how his day has fared;

But what comfort exists in the settled leaves
In their crinkle and shuffle and drift
That movement in their gathered sheaves,
In their rapid scurry or peaceful shift;

Somewhere beneath, in a pure place,
Where light is filtered and sound deadened
Frost is yet to show his blue-veined face
And time's swift footsteps are leadened.