by Christopher Brennan

Autumn: the year breathes dully towards
its death,
beside its dying sacrificial fire;
the dim world’s middle-age
of vain desire
is strangely troubled, waiting for the breath
that speaks
the winter’s welcome malison
to fix it in the unremembering sleep:
silent woods brood o’er an anxious deep,
and in the faded sorrow of the
I see my dreams’ dead colours, one by one,
forth-conjur’d from their
smouldering palaces,
fade slowly with the sigh of the passing year.
wander not nor wring their hands nor weep,
discrown’d belated dreams! but in
the drear
and lingering world we sit among the trees
and bow our heads as
they, with frozen mouth,
looking, in ashen reverie, towards the clear
splendour of the winter of the far south.

Image: ABF

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