A thousand leaves spin from the sky
And fill the lanes with scarlet dye;
The trees at night are ringed with dew
Like hardened bits of pearly glue.
What season turns the brush to flame?
Not summer, with her gentle name
Not winter, with her savage snows
Nor spring, where roses bud and blow.
These months are full of light and heat
Yet nightly ices still defeat,
And though the geese seem self-assured
They wing away, like all the birds.
One explanation must be true:
This must be autumn's fiery hue.