Classic Poem

Gold light pours over the hillsides, down along the streams.
Fluttering few faint leaves are gold.
In this warm land autumn comes late,
Frosts wait,
The nights are hardly cold.
Noon is still heavy. Long perpendicular beams
Pierce the tall woods.
It is summer, and not summer.

The first crimson flash, berry and leaf,
Is the dogwood against the north slope.
Sharp joy, sharp grief,
Or a too swift hope,
Are banished in this mild air,
Diffused, made mellow everywhere.
It is autumn, and not autumn.

The warm days that have been tossed
Lightly over the hills to the south, are not lost.
See! The grape ripens, there is juice, there is wine,
Heady and fine.
And a blaze of orange marigolds burns against the wall.
Warm your hands,
Look into the sun,
Your winter has not yet begun.
And for your courage, watch the delicate flight,
Soft floating, indolent and bright,
So soon to die,
The frivolous winged, brave, endearing,
Last golden butterfly.