It`s coming the pale breath of Autumn;
The swaying boughs will know their fate,
The verdure turf compulsory in suffron
Soon in time be and the Youth shall rise.
Slowly in subdued fury the blaze fades;
And the toiling beams now like ointment,
The merry fruit to devour now shrinks and withers
Consigning to the raw season in flight.
Piteous be decrepitude Age breath;
Wincing in bewilderment and doom,
The feeble muscles to shudder in cold
And the blithe to follow heightening the gloom.
The dethroned element wincing
In resigned thought sinking.
