On the heart’s hidden verge
To mark where love is buried
Mourner lilies spring
Out of the stunted spurge.
And a small wind sings dirge
Under the last leaves fluttering.
This autumn of the mood
Lives not beyond the rustle
Of its own leaves falling;
And soon, where lilies stood,
Brittle stalks in the wood
Shiver, like spectres at cock-calling.