Poems (Sackville)/Autumn
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AUTUMN
The year bends low and plays
With thoughts of old dead days—
Old loves—old words—old ways.
With thoughts of old dead days—
Old loves—old words—old ways.
To cheat her tired eyes
In gold embroideries,
And holy day disguise
In gold embroideries,
And holy day disguise
Comes Death—yet ceaseless cleaves
Midst aureate ferns and leaves
The voice of her who grieves.
Midst aureate ferns and leaves
The voice of her who grieves.
As one whose hopes aspire
No more, she seems—whose fire
Is fed by no desire.
No more, she seems—whose fire
Is fed by no desire.
As one whose cold hands stir
Grey dust and ashes sere
Within Love's sepulchre.
Grey dust and ashes sere
Within Love's sepulchre.