Autumn no longer comes with fire and sword:
I am there in the midst of its endeavours,
Myself a loose leaf hung on a bough.
When shall I fall? It does not matter now
As when impatient youth counted the hours
Or fashionable illusion spoke the word.
Life sprang, and made the spring without our help,
Green as our hope was sure to be deceived
And summer when it came soon dulled to August,
Turning to seed as every summer must.
A life once spent can never be retrieved
Yet there was never year without a whelp.
And so the seasons pass and I, complete,
Fall only to make way for a new bud;
So the world is refreshed till all is done:
A sure and certain hope for everyone,
With quiet for the pounding of the blood,
The world tidied away and all made neat.
