The mulberry trees
have shed their leaves,
the poplar trees are bare;
the peach tree rears
its slender spears,
into the cold grey air.
no humming bees
fly through the trees,
laden with stolen gold;
no blossom bright
will scent the night,
it is now withered, old.
the last bird-song,
will not be long,
then silence everywhere;
you will not hear
those crystal clear
notes rippling in the air.
these misty days,
autumn’s last phase,
pierced with an icy prong;
cold winter’s breath
will bring their death—
they’ll fade out with the song

find all poetic devices
will mark as brainliest