THE DEATH OF AUTUMN

by


     When reeds are dead and a straw to thatch the marshes,
     And feathered pampas-grass rides into the wind
     Like aged warriors westward, tragic, thinned
     Of half their tribe, and over the flattened rushes,
     Stripped of its secret, open, stark and bleak,
     Blackens afar the half-forgotten creek,—
     Then leans on me the weight of the year, and crushes
     My heart.  I know that Beauty must ail and die,
     And will be born again,—but ah, to see
     Beauty stiffened, staring up at the sky!
     Oh, Autumn!  Autumn!—What is the Spring to me?


8.5

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