A touch of cold in the Autumn night—
I walked abroad,
And saw the ruddy moon lean over a hedge
Like a red-faced farmer.
I did not stop to speak, but nodded,
And round about were the wistful stars
With white faces like town children.
“Autumn,” by T. E. Hulme, from The Imaginist: Modern Poetry in Miniature (ed. William Pratt) © Copyright 2008.
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