The pungent smell of dead leaves fills the air;
The cornfields now are desolate and bare.
We know that when the wild winds come to play
They’ll blow our weary summer on its way.
The gorse bush crackles. Suddenly it will see
That all the things we think we’re holding fast
Have faded to a dim and distant past
And every flower was just a wondrous dream.
The frightened soul sends out this wish to me—
That to the present it should cease to cling
That it should face its fading, like a tree
That autumn too its festive fare might bring.