The sun has gone and it all feels good;
Autumn has started in a fair dry mood.
Autumn has always been dutiful and fair,
I love its appealing night air.

The wind has stayed and dripped more;
A promise to my fall and ripe words,
Who is a poet but one with fine taste,
Who is she but the offspring of grace.

And the poet within me screamed;
Late words are rich and but not a dream,
I jolted awake at a dark night,
I saved my soul and my autumn light.

And the poet within me told;
There are too many verses untold,
Their idle fate shall not awaken them,
And without touch, they shall not bloom.

And the poet repeated many times;
That I ought to retreat to my fine rhymes,
To salute my old self with renewed breath,
With a conscious mind and eager taste.

And the poet stressed her meaning;
My verses are sought for their singing,
That I should soon shove myself awake,
That there are too many tales to make.

I grew wakeful in two mere seconds;
There was a fair line for me to see,
I opened my eyes fast that morn,
I sensed a new rhythm about me.

I jumped alive with freshened breath;
I stirred to life on the sun’s death.
Nor is my love alive, no more,
I have less to love, but not my words.

Falsehood has left me too accustomed;
Everything is false outside of my poem,
That I could live and love but my own tales,
That I could only breathe within their veils.

But who is to love me when love is awake;
Who is to dream of me behind the lake,
Who is to notice the rustling of my leaves,
Who is to read me when love lives.

And who is to say my love lies in words;
For all has been a joke within these worlds,
All is fire and fury inside their jealousy,
The ecstasy I cannot abolish, and free.

I am accustomed to their boasts of gold;
I am too idle to further their stories told,
I am the love and life of my own ends,
The heart of my mortal fate, and hands.

I am the idle daughter of toil and madness;
I am the author of all beings and darkness,
All sight to me is youth and remarkable,
All winds are idyllic, all ruins are humble.

I am the foliage that never rusts;
I am the joy that shall never pass.
I am the delight that goes with you,
I am the nigh sigh that is real and true.

Even the beastly suns cannot reach me;
And their scorching wit that shan’t see.
They all shall shrink in the mirth of words,
They all shall run and flee the woods.

Even such misery deters me not;
Nor such tales I have not offered,
I am sane in my every effort,
I am true to my every word.

Even such falsehood wanes me not;
Nor such poems I have writ,
Nor the tales I have told,
Nor the two fateful ends that meet.

And has the shaking of minds left me unshaken;
And the lies of love leaving me untouched.
Who says but being loved is not a burden,
Who says that mortal joys shall ever last.

Who says that being in love is not a torture;
Who says that it takes minutes, not hours to love,
Who says that love is certain, love is sure,
Who says love is not a cry in love.

Who says love is not a morbid show;
Who says love shall always hear and know,
Who says but love shall never go,
Who says but love shall stay today, and tomorrow.

Who says love loves in its blood-red chamber;
Who says love is not bound to a curse.
Who says love is striking in its own light,
Who says love can but see throughout the night.

Who says love is not a part of sleep;
Who says love is awake, when ‘tis asleep.
Who says love can adore oneself too deep,
Who says love is at the night hours, to weep.

Who says love is too awake to be blind;
Who says love is watchful in her own mind.
Who says love is not but a murky statue,
Who says love can awake much of me and you.

I am too frail in my own literature;
Having tortured by daylight’s rude slumbers,
I fell in love on their dull torture,
Forced to feel on the sound of words.

I am too blind to sweetly love, and hold;
I am a mind ‘twas once too cold,
A ****** that was a disgrace to thee,
Thou wert incapable of loving me.

I am a threat to creation;
The betrayal of love and its judgments,
The death of merit and attachments,
The gaiety of evil and separation.

I am a deceit to gluttony and lust;
That a sign of madness would soon disrupt,
That all should remain a vain attempt,
That would soon confuse love and lust.

I am a disgrace to existence;
That all I have loved is everlasting pain,
That all is but a blind conscience,
That all is heat and there shan’t be rain.

I am untold in my own fortune;
That all is not a story nor tune,
That all is rage but not a tale told,
That all is heat, not a day cold.

And there is literature but no love;
For words themselves shall suffice,
For my heart is not ripe, not enough;
For my heart does not understand lies.

And there is not fathoming but madness;
Harm and anger in their strange noise,
Tired of their idleness,
Sick of their ill bliss.

And there is not found a conclusion;
That all is rigorous but shan’t know,
I have lived but a sour oblivion,
That all is present, but not tomorrow.