How soft the artist paints a mild and coloured view,
how this season's changed from summer's gaudy hue.
Such textured exaltations,concordantly parades
to the admiringing eye,red rich luxuriant shades,
quietly falling from the, love kindled copious wood,
leaves flutter down where verdant spring once stood,
in unheard whispers, like as a sympathetic tear,
as if in contradiction's jest, beholds the dying year.
Flown the bird of fortune, whilst fleeting time employ
emotion, to heave the autumnal heart with joy,
tells of youthful spring, its passing time has fled,
gone the grassy paths that we no longer tread.
Oh! crimson painted leaves in tottering hours sway,
'tis nature's paradox her fond beauty in decay,
waft the dying scents that all around us swell,
perfumes the air we breathe in silence of farewell,
like as daybreak, after night's sweet dream
of vanished joys, when all at peace did seem,
whilst now we gaze on new found skies.
Congruent memory hold tight those hours we prize,
for all we loved to another age belong,
yet love endures to make our winters strong.