A day in autumn this, like none I’ve known!
The air is still, as if one scarcely breathed;
Yet far and near come rustling gently down
The loveliest of fruits from every tree.
Oh, think not to intrude on nature’s feast,
This is the harvest which is hers to call;
For from the branches is alone released
What rays of gentle sunlight cause to fall.
Summer Picture
I saw in flower summer’s final rose;
It looked as if it well could bleed, bright red.
I shuddered as I spoke when passing close:
So far in life’s too near to being dead.
No breath of wind stirred on that fiery day,
There only skimmed a lone white butterfly,
Yet though its beating wing scarce caused a sway
Of air, the rose still sensed this and it died.
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