It is a strange thing this, to consider
the world in hasty whirling throes
of autumnal grace, it walks a yellow
train of leaves, swathed in a veil
of misted mornings. The world
is marrying the season.

There is a potent force that gathers
like iron to iron, blood to blood:
it bids me to yield to its altering
wheeling might
purer than light

I have seen the heavens change
and a vapid world, without you in it.