O the orange tinge, of the clusters,
that lie fallen in the brevity of time,
snatched of their beauty.

Rise will they again?
Or does an ague pursue them,
will they not display their true colors?
Or lie sunken in the wilting grass.

Autumn! Autumn, you have come indeed.
The fall and rise, is spun by the webs of time,
they will come hence, and go nether,
to the pits of darkness, and lay threadbare,
when they will to appear.
How can humanity gouge its hidden veils, shrouded?