The Autumn
In autumn’s grace, the leaves do fall, A dance of amber, gold, enthrall; The air is crisp with scents of wood, As nature wears her finest hood.
The harvest yields in fields of rust, With hopes renewed, a heart must trust; The bounty speaks of seasons passed, While whispered dreams in silence last.
The twilight lingers soft and sweet, As birds take flight to seek retreat; For in the chill, the earth must rest, Wrapped in the dreams that she possessed.
O autumn, muse of dying flames, With beauty held in all your names; In every color, every hue— A tapestry you weave anew.
- George William Curtis