Irish poets, learn your trade, sing whatever is well made, scorn the sort now growing up all out of shape from toe to top
'Fall, leaves, fall'
by Emily Bronte
Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;
Lengthen night and shorten day;
Every leaf speaks bliss to me
Fluttering from the autumn tree.
I shall smile when wreaths of snow
Blossom where the rose should grow;
I shall sing when night's decay
Ushers in a drearier day.