Autumn

With Autumn’s whisper, leaves grow frail, And shadows dance on every trail, While harvest scents fill all the air— Life’s cycle bids its closing fare.

But oh, the colors on the boughs— A gold and red in summer’s house— Will tell sweet tales of sunlit hours, Of night’s soft moon and fragrant flowers.

So Nature holds her tapestry, In woven light continually, Ah, time beats soft in every strain, With Autumn lying down in pain.

• Thomas Wentworth Higginson