Autumn: the year breathes dully towards its death

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Autumn: the year breathes dully towards its death,beside its dying sacrificial fire;the dim world's middle-age of vain desireis strangely troubled, waiting for the breaththat speaks the winter's welcome malisonto fix it in the unremembering sleep:the silent woods brood o'er an anxious deep,and in the faded sorrow of the sun,I see my dreams' dead colours, one by one,forth-conjur'd from their smouldering palaces,fade slowly with the sigh of the passing year.They wander not nor wring their hands nor weep,discrown'd belated dreams! but in the drearand lingering world we sit among the treesand bow our heads as they, with frozen mouth,looking, in ashen reverie, towards the clearsad splendour of the winter of the far south.

© Christopher John Brennan