All is autumn; the sleepers wake.
Drunkards wake the dream of summer,
Poets are sobered by yellowed leaves,
And lovers find their love is cooled
At the merest breath of a mellow breeze.

Children are stolen from games in the garden
As if they sin against the season,
For teachers keep them locked away
Like angels bearing swords of flame.

But there is yet some paradise
Not lost to those who suffer time.
The world has withered, but is not fruitless.
Eden is past, but the harvest is here,
And apples will flourish in the Fall.