When the darkness comes earlier and earlier,
And the light stretches like so many fingers in broken prisms across the ground,
There is a stillness in the heart for the upcoming winter,
And ebony wings fly against the emptiness and sudden loss of sound.
The leaves are like so many golden ghosts,
Edging themselves into the approaching night;
And the trees are fasting, thin skeletons in the gloam,
Cold spectral cuts against the dropping white.
The smells are brisk, a passing item in the wind,
And placid creatures dare not take a deeper breath;
But one of them is crying in the heavy blackness as it comes
A sad and dismal sound like a forgotten dirth.
"Tell, tell again", the seasons sing,
"Tell the lost, the long forgotten tales."
The sun sinks down and so the world
And sinks each deep and winding trail.
