Poems (Millay)/The Death of Autumn
The Death of Autumn
When reeds are dead and a straw to thatch the marshes,And feathered pampas-grass rides into the windLike agèd warriors westward, tragic, thinnedOf 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 crushesMy heart. I know that Beauty must ail and die,And will be born again,—but ah, to seeBeauty stiffened, staring up at the sky!Oh, Autumn! Autumn!—What is the Spring to me?