Now every day the
bracken browner grows,
Even the
purple stars
Of
clematis, that shone about the bars,
Grow browner; and the little autumn rose
Dons, for her rosy
gown,
Sad weeds of brown
Now falls the eve; and ere the morning sun,
Many a flower her sweet life will have lost,
Slain by the bitter frost,
Who slays the butterflies also, one by one,
The tiny beasts
That go about their business and their feasts.
Mary Coleridge, 1861-1907