Last Week in October by Thomas Hardy
  the trees are undressing, and fling in many places—
on the gray road, the roof, the window-sill—
their radiant robes and ribbons and yellow laces;
a leaf each second so is flung at will,
here, there, another and another, still and still.

a spider's web has caught one while downcoming,
that stays there dangling when the rest pass on;
like a suspended criminal hangs he, mumming
in golden garb, while one yet green, high yon,
trembles, as fearing such a fate for himself anon.