In dense, sun peppered tangled thickets in roadside hedges,

Along straight lanes, river banks and sparkling meadows edges,

The late November sun, like golden lanterns, hang on every spray,

From branches, twigs and boughs, the lamps of the sun swing and sway.

This was where Summer’s palest roses reached up high and grew,

The scorching, ripe red hips, their colours bursting and burning,

So the haws upon a may-bush mark winter’s rapid returning,

On old and new boughs of holly and of the yew red berries blaze,

Warning scholars of nature, the promise of the coming frosty days.