Autumn

O golden months, whose harvest blights
The branches where the leaves fall down;
Thy beauty fills the endless sights
Of nature wearing amber crown.

Thy breezes blow, the whispers say
Of changing times, of love’s delight;
The chill of morning, born of gray,
Gives depth to every autumn night.

O fleeting, gentle season’s grace,
Bring forth the wine of thoughts divine;
With every amber touch we trace,
Reflects the light from thine own shine.

• John Davies