Out through the fields and the woods,
and over the walls I have treaded.
I have climbed the hills of view,
and looked onto the world descended.
I have come by the paths twisted;
and lo, it is ended.
The leaves are dead on the ground,
save those that the oak is keeping.
To ravel them one by one,
and let them go creeping.
Out over the crusted snow,
while others are in bitter sleep.
Bow and accept the end,
of a fading season.
The last of green is gone,
and as is this autumn's treason,
to love blooming.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem