Especially when the October wind

　　With frosty fingers punishes my hair，

　　Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire

　　And cast a shadow crab upon the land，

　　By the sea's side， hearing the noise of birds，

　　Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks，

　　My busy heart who shudders as she talks

　　Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words.

　　Shut， too， in a tower of words， I mark

　　On the horizon walking like the trees

　　The wordy shapes of women， and the rows

　　Of the star-gestured children in the park.

　　Some let me make you of the vowelled beeches，

　　Some of the oaken voices， from the roots

　　Of many a thorny shire tell you notes，

　　Some let me make you of the water's speeches.

　　Behind a post of ferns the wagging clock

　　Tells me the hour's word， the neural meaning

　　Flies on the shafted disk， declaims the morning

　　And tells the windy weather in the cock.

　　Some let me make you of the meadow's signs；

　　The signal grass that tells me all I know

　　Breaks with the wormy winter through the eye.

　　Some let me tell you of the raven's sins.

　　Especially when the October wind

　　（Some let me make you of autumnal spells，

　　The spider-tongued， and the loud hill of Wales）

　　With fists of turnips punishes the land，

　　Some let me make of you the heartless words.

　　The heart is drained that， spelling in the scurry

　　Of chemic blood， warned of the coming fury.

　　By the sea's side hear the dark-vowelled birds.