The feathers of the willow Are half of them grown yellow Above the swelling stream; And ragged are the bushes, And rusty now the rushes, And wild the clouded gleam. The thistle now is older, His stalk begins to moulder, His head is white as snow; The branches all are barer, The linnet's song is rarer, The robin pipeth now. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE NEW APOCRYPHA: BUSINESS REVERSES by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE COLORED BAND by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR EPITAPH ON THE TOMB OF SIR EDWARD GILES AND HIS WIFE by ROBERT HERRICK THE VAMPIRE by RUDYARD KIPLING UNDER THE SHADE OF THE TREES [MAY 10, 1863] by MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON |