Autumn is icumen in, With all its tricks, Its treats and whims.*
I can't mourn Summer's passing; Those days Of idle slumber. Summer suns And midnight moons, The silhouettes of June; Holiday highs, Mad July; The robust garden Lust of August.
I won't.
Autumn air Affronts my senses, The Arctic cool Dips and rules. The moss has left The trees; Arthritic twigs Let lose The leaves.
Autumn is icumen in
Autumn, With its foils And foibles, Rakes us in With harlequin sins, And all its Wherewithal. Embrace your fall.
Winter is icumen in
Repost Title adapted from an Old English poem, Summer is icumen in.