Tint of summer sweet,
In the colours of a smile,
Subtle tones of autumns breath,
Hint at the arc of death,
As the arrow would its length and trial.

And the breath of seasons change,
Dance in the mist of dawn,
Pirouetting ghost of leaves,
As spring clutches summers sleeve,
The shadows of its light come and gone.

Night would contest the day,
And the day an evenings end,
So would its end contest decay,
Of a moment torn on the mend,
As the newborn would clutch at life,
So would the withered at a second look,
And the seasons at a lengthened day,
As the eager eyes for an open book.

And for the stone which stands the winds and gale,
Of the seas rage it would boast, and to no avail,
Of all the hearts sulk and woe,
Could stone spin and weave a tail,
For time leaves no sign,
On that which shows no mark,
And that stone so untouched,
And so wretched a beating heart,
It, like autumns eve,
Could scarcely only breathe,
For fear of winters breath,
And with it, autumns death.