Poems (Sackville)/Autumn
AUTUMN
The year bends low and playsWith thoughts of old dead days—Old loves—old words—old ways.
To cheat her tired eyesIn gold embroideries,And holy day disguise
Comes Death—yet ceaseless cleavesMidst aureate ferns and leavesThe voice of her who grieves.
As one whose hopes aspireNo more, she seems—whose fireIs fed by no desire.
As one whose cold hands stirGrey dust and ashes sereWithin Love's sepulchre.