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.
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