THERE is SO much to catch
As the days go by,
The line of some queer old thatch
Against wintry sky,
The huge red sun of November
Threatening snow,
Dark woods that seem to remember
Ages ago,
Gold king-cups crowning the ditches,
Windows agleam,
Old willows standing like witches
Haunting a stream,
Far mountains lit with a glow
That is tremulous
With something we only know
Is never for us,
All shapes of rocks and of trees
That a rune has enchanted,
All sounds that sigh upon seas
Or lands that are haunted.
So much there is to catch,
And the years so short,
That there is scarce time to snatch
Pen, palette, or aught,
And to seize some shape we can see,
That others may keep
Its moment of mystery,
Then go to our sleep.