In the deep fall don’t you imagine the leaves think how comfortable it will be to touch the earth instead of the nothingness of air and the endless freshets of wind? And don’t you think the trees themselves, especially those with mossy, warm caves, begin to think of the birds that will come – six, a dozen – to sleep inside their bodies? And don’t you hear the goldenrod whispering goodbye, the everlasting being crowned with the first tuffets of snow? The pond vanishes, and the white field over which the fox runs so quickly brings out its blue shadows. And the wind pumps its bellows. And at evening especially, the piled firewood shifts a little, longing to be on its way.
Blaze, sun, blaze you fire streak, Above horizon ashen sneak, Specked with brilliant heat from molten core, Ball of flames such orange pumpkin, Burning object, many lore.
A gleeful creature shed rays of light, Bring swift end to blanket night, Lava white pinpricks vanish far, Seen not 'till the moon prevails, And sky so soft is dipped in tar.
She with fame a myth ruled over day, Angel pure free from decay, Deity honored with many precious gift, Bow down to her majesty, Sacrificed poor lamb so swift.
But she, a terrible being slaughter, Stole away liquid, took the water, Dried the life, said died of thirst, Wrinkled hopeless fruit from limb, Not only blessing, 'tis the worst.
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