Song to Autumn




Who said you are the sad season?
Because your hues are yellow and flame,
in high passion and falling?  Reason
fails before this, you’ve earned your name.
And we the sole creatures can know their fate?
Then you force us to know ourselves anew,
each time you make our mortal breath bate.
Fear, perhaps, yes, but beauty, too, through and true.
Alive, acute and awakened, I feel,
and even, occasionally, almost wise.
Yes, facing this timed beauty, so real,
a soul may see through even his own lies.
       Sad?  No, the word is far too small;
       time, beauty, passion all live in the fall.





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