Autumn bides her weary time till trees like setting suns have had
their evening splendour out and even misty mornings bring the joy
of rattling rusts and roses bristling in the breezes, sere like
the skins of bark beneath them.
Bright their hue in the sun's rich light
In gold & yellow & dun they're dight
But they keen in the wind's chill breath.
In a brief storm in a black night
One falls and is wan in the paling light
And the dun darkens to death.
.
...
.
Cold was the mire underfoot
And wet were the feet that trod
Thin was the cry she heard in the storm
And broken in the sod - her god.
Sorrows untold for her weary lord
Pierced her through with pain
And she gave him her gown of
Gold & brown and one of black she made.
Then the land was dark
As she cast it wide
And the bare hillside
Was chill and stark
As winter's grip
The spells unrhymed
That summer made;
Hoar frosts pinched
The sleeping seed
And the forest path led
On and on through barren dells
And misty slopes fell sheer away
And the dark road had
no ending
