Old Mill

I walked down by the old worn mill one day that seemed like summer still. Where brilliant trees of amber shone, a trickling brook slid over stone— and there I crossed with careful tread as 'round the stones swirled leaves of red and yellow in a dizzy blaze that carried off the summer days. And as I reached the crumbling shed, a chilling wind whirled on ahead. It made me shiver as the scent of autumn ruffled by and went beyond to where the winter will snow softly on the old worn mill.