The Earth Turns South/Autumn

by Clement Richardson Wood

For works with similar titles, see Autumn.

AUTUMN

Now, like a rough buffet in the face,
The first breeze of Autumn,
Burlily swaggering through the blistered streets,
Lashes my summer-drugged spirit.

From the chill far hills it comes,
Brusquely jostling down the fruit in the orchards,
Clawing the gay-colored leaves from the trees,
Until their thin corpses litter the ground,
And crying to the spirits of men:
"Ho, away with you!
Skulk to your dim houses,
Cower from your frosty master!
I and my brother, Winter, proscribe you!
We will chill with our icy touch
The gay glow of your hearts,
We will strip bare the foliage of your souls."

Ah, breeze of Autumn,
You are no conqueror to me,
But brother of my spirit.
Your rough handshake bugles up my laggard self.
Though you bluster with your chill blast

I will roar you back from my loved ways.
Your tempest heartens my soul
For the keen struggle remaining,
And the glad, hard road.