Mother Autumn! Do not go! But, come, and let us lie beneath this burnished tree Where swings a blood-red vine; Then let us count the golden balls upon the mountain ash. And let us drink the tingling wine That feeds these purple clusters; And let me keep your warm breath on my cheek, Mother mine. The ghost vine swings in barren tree; Grey night crouches low. O, let me close this heavy gate Against those leaden clouds. They march as armies lead by traitor grim -- Or Death . . . Mother Autumn! Do not go! I loved you so . . . |