Let whoever wants to, relax in the south,
And bask in the garden of paradise.
Here is the essence of north—and it's autumn
I've chosen as this year's friend.

Flowers, cold from the dew,
And autumn's approaching breath,
I pluck for the warm, luxuriant braids,
Which haven't faded yet.

In their nights, fragrantly resinous,
Entwined with delightful mystery,
They will breathe in her springlike
Extraordinary beauty.

But in a whirlwind of sound and fire,
From her shing head they will flutter
And fall—and before her
They will die, faintly fragrant still.

And, impelled by faithful longing,
My obedient gaze will feast upon them—
With a reverent hand,
Love will gather their rotting remains.

Autumn carries more gold in its pocket than all the other seasons.

Autumn...the year's last, loveliest smile."

[Indian Summer]

The goldenrod is yellow,
The corn is turning brown...
The trees in apple orchards
With fruit are bending down.

The last dead leaves of fall crackled underfoot, winter-crisp.