It will not always be like this, 
The air windless, a few last
Leaves adding their decoration
To the trees? shoulders, braiding the cuffs
Of the boughs with gold; a bird preening

In the lawn?s mirror. Having looked up
From the day?s chores, pause a minute, 
Let the mind take its photograph
Of the bright scene, something to wear
Against the heart in the long cold.