I hear the wind's raspy requiem
Bid farewell to a long lost friend,
What melancholy strains touch my eyes
As I hear the last song of a flute
Which plays in melodies of ache
From the heart of seasons past,
Nature's bled, yet ne'er this hue
And amber cloaks the morning dew.
Weakening wings that turn and tear
In hope of quietus or sunshine
Relay in fear, both near and far
A hundred tales of golden days,
And by and by, a vengeful mist
Settles over the dying land,
There are no more tales to tell
As open the gates of a colder hell.
And time shivers the night away
In spasms of rain, hail and snow,
And the feeble day lies in slumber
Shy to clear his strident throat,
Enfevered are the Graces
That dressed the rich yesterday,
Mother Nature does the poorest save;
Few beds are warmer than the grave.
The last leaf prances in the air
Free from the manacles of birth,
And now the quiet hours approach
Of solitude and remembrance.
A whisper sheaths another quill,
A prayer weaves another will,
A solstice soothes the ruptured vein,
Beauty is Beauty in wane.
Winter is coming.