The time has come when earth is draped in splendor,
A shroud of fallen leaves, their mournful glow,
Whose aged weariness and somber grandeur
Have long been part of me, as well I know.

The air is sickly, heavy with despair,
And as the dim day fades to evening’s chill,
The night’s cold breath steals what remains in there—
A kindred force to my own breath, so still.

I find a strange delight in this connection,
A fervent joy in such a somber tie,
When, breathing in the autumn’s damp infection,
I feel the freshness of decay nearby.

The birds are silent, leaves but faintly rustle,
The fire smolders low, and you appear.
The cooling ash of night’s hushed bustle
Holds neither promise nor a trace of fear.

The forceful spark of life, now vain and fleeting,
Has crumbled deep within its withered core.
A bit of ash, a wisp of smoke retreating —
That’s all you see in me, and nothing more.

The first wind gently stirs, the first gust’s cry,
I am gone, and earth no longer bears me by.