Autumn Song

       O, for a wind that can be sorrow,
       Clean, chill in its fingers, creeping,
       That it may have a reckoning
       For my vanity and my laughter,
       And the flutter of my brows.

       Whistle oh wind, whistle with the sighs
       of leaves that cannot clutch
       At green and go on plucking fruit; and yet,
       A little warmth still clings to the grapes
       And lingers over the hollow of black
       And cold.

       Caress with your chill, O Season of loss!
       I am a flower no more!
       All the green of youth dribbles down,
       Yet I wear the haziness of what was
       Even as moon on red is drawn,
       Finding me.

• D H Lawrence