Impressions of America

The lily’s withered chalice fallsAround its rod of dusty gold,And from the beech trees on the woldThe last wood-pigeon coos and calls.The gaudy leonine sunflowerHangs black and barren on its stalk,And down the windy garden walkThe dead leaves scatter,hour by hour.Pale privet-petals white as milkAre blown into a snowy mass;The roses lie upon the grass,Like little shreds of crimson silk.   (Tanıtım Bülteninden)