ISSUE: Autumn 1926
Do you like my yellow leaves
That rustled once in Arden,
Or will you have rosemary
From an English garden?
Small hard berries redden now
On that treeless hill,
Near them bends a late blue larkspur
One more frost will kill.
You may have your choice of these,
All that I shall keep
Are pine needles for a pillow
That will bring me sleep.