Autumn, I think, now.
Rose hues assume a deeper intensity.
Little birds flying in from far in the wild bush
Pursue insects boldly even into our parlours.
The play of the winds is less turbulent:
They scatter gently forespent petallage
And a scent of ripe seeds is borne on their soft gusts.
To-day I do not perceive the outcry of young folk,
Perhaps they are helping to get in some harvest
Or far-afield for important ball-games.
Only old men pause by the sunny roadside
Noticing the same sights that I have noticed
And listening to the same quietness.
We do not regret that we are of ripe years
We do not complain of grey hairs and infirmities
We are drowsy and very ready to fall into deep sleep.
From a Garden in the Antipodes (Sidgwick & Jackson, 1929)