The hedgerows flame with fruit of sombre hue,
Each berry set like embers in the thorn;
The summer’s green has faded into rue,
And autumn wakes to sing the day forlorn.
Each berry set like embers in the thorn;
The summer’s green has faded into rue,
And autumn wakes to sing the day forlorn.
Yet in the hush a robin strikes his chord,
A steadfast hymn against the mist and chill;
No choir of men, no psalm before the Lord,
Could pierce the silence with a note so still.
O fleeting year, thy glories burn and fade,
Thy crown of light is scattered on the ground;
Yet through thy loss a deeper truth is made,
That beauty clings where death and dark abound.
So sings the thorn, so answers morning’s breath:
In every falling fruit there hides no death.
Wording 