let me tell you that even in the very fatally reclining Autumn some kind of blossoms do
gregariously stutter through human motes blundering in the sallow thinness of heat
and their petals are (though skinny) increase and increase again till bursts into
flame the ember of their crooning pistil a fountain of majesty (from which lust eats)
washing every face in sudden aching brevity, the immortal night, her pleasing coo
is as stars like and nothing also, yet of real body, in serious fatally reclining Autumn keeps
the vagrant heart

                                                                                                                                     the crisp sleeps