Summer's last moon has waned —
Waned
As amber fires
Of an Aztec shrine.
The invisible breath of coming death has stained
The withering leaves with its nepenthean wine —
Autumn's near.
Winds in the woodland moan —
Moan
As memories
Of a chilling yore.
Magnolia seeds like Indian beads are strown
From crimson pods along the earth's sere floor —
Autumn's near.
Solitude slowly steals,
Steals
Her silent way
By the songless brook.
At the gnarly yoke of a solemn oak she kneels,
The musing joy of sadness in her look —
Autumn's near.
Yes, with her golden days —
Days
When hope and toil
Are at peace and rest —
Autumn is near, and the tired year‘ mid praise
Lies down with leaf and blossom on his breast —
Autumn's near.