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.