Dreary frosts are on the ground,
Save for winds there’s not a sound,
The beeches whisper soft.
Leaves now pile in golden heaps;
From the wall the blue-tit peeps,
And views the tree aloft.
In the field the ploughman now
Wrestles with his creaking plough,
Behind him hungry crows
Follow up his sandy neck,
And flock in glistening rows.
Herbert McCready Age 14