Autumn
This dying-season’s palette lightly paints
Its varied colours on the waving trees,
Reminding us that Autumn’s breezes soon
Will yield to Winter’s storming gales before
Spring’s stirring freshets may again prelude
The pleasures of warm Summer’s mellow days.
Already droop limp leaves, prepared to drop —
As artists’ models’ wraps, to shew their bared
Beauties to those discerning eyes and hands
Which deftly will transpose, in canvassed shades,
The quintessential aspects of their forms —
So rendering immortal what had been
Until that moment transient, sweet pulchritude:
And so my Autumn phrases paint their loveliness.
