Autumn Nocturne
It is no wind, but Time himself
Chording the leaves with savage fingers,
Till over all the hills a tumult
Of dark, rebellious music lingers.
Threnody — nocturne — marche macabre
Of resonant and ironic mirth —
At every mighty chord, like grace-notes,
The brown leaves flicker down to earth.
Beauty and Time were ever ruthless.
Why do I find it bitter and wrong
That life and leaf alike pay forfeit
For one brief hour of song?
Chording the leaves with savage fingers,
Till over all the hills a tumult
Of dark, rebellious music lingers.
Threnody — nocturne — marche macabre
Of resonant and ironic mirth —
At every mighty chord, like grace-notes,
The brown leaves flicker down to earth.
Beauty and Time were ever ruthless.
Why do I find it bitter and wrong
That life and leaf alike pay forfeit
For one brief hour of song?
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