Begins the slow melancholy dance of Autumn. <br /> <br />Fallen colored waxen tiles cover the last <br />remaining sprouts of green, that not so long <br />ago were new. <br /> <br />Beseeched and then provoked, <br />I am restless in my sleep. <br /> <br />Beneath my ship the tide conspires <br />and acts together with my wish, <br />and tugs against my ties. <br /> <br />Insistent persuasive memory of southern <br />trades command, <br />luring me perceptively <br />to leave this place behind. <br /> <br />Our always welcome visitants have for months <br />performed and now fled south to <br />lower latitudes, <br />as should I. <br /> <br />Away, the <br />vindictive polar wind that soon arrives, <br />to leave faceless all the dancing girls <br />of spring and summer brought. <br /> <br /> A gray <br />suspension <br />despondent sky <br />an icy harbor <br />belabors me. <br /> <br />Foretelling of sequestered <br />ships unable then to move. <br />Quarantined we <br />soon shall be, <br />none will come nor go.<br /><br />Stephen S. Yeandle<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/an-observation-by-capt-poe/
