The Hour After Autumn

In the hour after autumn,

There’s an old, unsteady glow.

It enshrouds the fallen season

Till the winds of winter blow.

There’s a moment in the gloaming

As the sighs of summer cease

When the weather wends its roaming

Through a slight and sombre peace.

Though the cracks are surely showing

In the frailty of the heat

As the calls of cold are growing,

There’s no haste in its retreat.

Till hibernal chills awaken

And the flights of frost arrive,

Ancient ardour shan’t be shaken.

Still the strains of sun survive.