The weeping willow wallows
in her silver pool of grief,
And aches in every bending bough
and every withered leaf.

For Summer's gathered up her
skirts and flitted from the scene,
No velvet peach can grow here
now, nor silken nectarine

The leaves have turned to rusted
gold and mists are creeping in,
So cue the musk of woodsmoke
and a Schubert violin.

The birds have flown their dingy
nests, the flowers are all dust,
And in the ragged hedgerow
blows the sombre stench of must.

Soon tiny stars of crystal
bright will shimmer all around,
Till slabs of mausoleum
ice lie covering the ground.

But dreams will not be buried
here upon this funeral bed,
When in the earth a snowdrop
waits to show its sleepy head.

And bonfires smell of incense
now, of myrrh and spicy things,
As birds fly south to sweeter
climes on fiery golden wings