  Summer's last moon has waned— Waned As amber fires Of an Aztec shrine. The invisible breath of coming death has stained The withering leaves with its nepenthean wine— Autumn's near. Winds in the woodland moan— Moan As memories Of a chilling yore. Magnolia seeds like Indian beads are strewn From crimson pods along the earth's sere floor— Autumn's near. Solitude slowly steals, Steals Her silent way By the songless brook. At the gnarly yoke of a solemn oak she kneels, The musing joy of sadness in her look— Autumn's near. Yes, with her golden days— Days When hope and toil Are at peace and rest— Autumn is near, and the tired year 'mid praise Lies down with leaf and blossom on her breast— Autumn's near. |
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