Once More with Feeling

I know the year is dying,

Soon the summer will be dead.

I can trace it in the flying

Of the black crows overhead;

I can hear it in the rustle

Of the dead leaves as I pass,

And the south wind's plaintive sighing

Through the dry and withered grass.

 

Ah, 'tis then I love to wander,

Wander idly and alone,

Listening to the solemn music

Of sweet nature's undertone;

Wrapt in thoughts I cannot utter,

Dreams my tongue cannot express,

Dreams that match the autumn's sadness

In their longing tenderness.

 

-- Mortimer Crane Brown

 

[My annual tribute to Brown's masterful verse.]

 

Done