Poems (Cromwell)/Autumn
For works with similar titles, see Autumn.
AUTUMN
Capricious little poem and sapling rhyme Grew on the golden hillside of my youth. The stanzas were as crooked and uncouth As early things are wont to be. For time Was pressing and mid-summer's glowing prime Was ever imminent. Mysterious truth Was the warm soil thought sprouted from. Forsooth My songs were stem and filament to climb. But now, the memory of bud and fruit And flower is weariness. This present week In mid-September, wayward wild pursuit Is over; youth fulfilled. How shall they seek Beyond, unless from sunbeams in the skies These listless leaves take warmer harmonies?