Autumn: the year breathes dully towards its death, <br />beside its dying sacrificial fire; <br />the dim world's middle-age of vain desire <br />is strangely troubled, waiting for the breath <br />that speaks the winter's welcome malison <br />to fix it in the unremembering sleep: <br />the silent woods brood o'er an anxious deep, <br />and in the faded sorrow of the sun, <br />I see my dreams' dead colours, one by one, <br />forth-conjur'd from their smouldering palaces, <br />fade slowly with the sigh of the passing year. <br />They wander not nor wring their hands nor weep, <br />discrown'd belated dreams! but in the drear <br />and lingering world we sit among the trees <br />and bow our heads as they, with frozen mouth, <br />looking, in ashen reverie, towards the clear <br />sad splendour of the winter of the far south.<br /><br />Christopher John Brennan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/autumn-14/
