But here the Autumn melancholy dwells

and sighs her tearful spells

amongst the sunless shadows of the plain.

Alone, alone, 

upon the mossy stone

she sits and reckons up the dead and gone

with the last leaves for a love-rosary

whilst all the whitered world looks drearily

like a dim picture of the drowned past

in the hushed mind's mysterious far away

doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the last

Into that distance, gray upon the gray.

Ni glömmer väl inte att ställa en mängd saftiga 

frågor till mig som jag kan sätta tänderna i?