…still it’s not death that spends
So tenderly this treasure
To leaf-rich golden winds,
But life in lavish measure.
No, it’s not death this year
Since then and all the pain.
It’s life we harvest here
(Sun on the crimson vine).
The garden speaks your name.
We drink your joys like wine.
~May Sarton, from “The First Autumn”
Is there something finished? And some new beginning on the way?
I cried over beautiful things, knowing no beautiful thing lasts…
~Carl Sandburg, from “Falltime” and “Autumn Movement”
I praise the fall:
It is the human season. On this sterile air
Do words outcarry breath: the sound goes on and on.
I hear a dead man’s cry from autumn long since gone.
I cry to you beyond upon this bitter air.
~Archiblad MacLeish from “Immortal Autumn”