Yonder leaves are slowly drying
in the woods, where summer's green,
Once, a verdant state of succulence
dieing now, transforms the scene. Rolling hills of sunburned corn tops,
rustling in the autumn air,
Tassels spread like worn mops,
loosely deranged, thread-bare. Walks littered with deciduous debris-
depicts a sloven of womankind,
Gregarious crows call restlessly,
through the Heaven's wind. Fall, the end to summer pleasures,
melancholy though it be,
Leaves a criterion for to measure,
worthwhile things in life, still free. |
