Autumn whispers, calling those who hear,
whispering peace and rest and soft enfolding.
Tenderly she speaks with muted voice and soundless deeds,
paints her colors on the landscape, chilling breath within each lung,
delicately drapes the trees and hills with wispy veil,
lovingly then sighs of hopes and dreams that lie unsung;
but firmly curbs the chance and hope that anything succeeds—
root, tuber, spore and corn, inkling, germ and seeds—
lie dormant down as aged men sleep and dream to yet again be young.
But Autumn speaks in jagged tones to those who listen not,
blowing wildly on their untamed plans and projects still unfolding.
Sternly how she shouts and utters, howls and flutters ceaselessly,
smiting hard the grasses, blades, and bushes—flowers fade—
tearing leaf by leaf each tree denudes till starkly stands,
coldly blowing hard on summer's half-done art and trade,
till nature hangs her head in mute assent and then agrees
that Springtime thoughts are not a refuge for to flee—
now sadly lies midst dingy leaves and sorrows weighed.
But Autumn speaks of turning and returning if you'd hear:
cold her touch of ice and restless wind will turn again to Spring.
Her dazzling blaze of colors calls the heart to long,
paints the hope and imprint of a coming Spring once more,
nestles wish and aspiration in the long, dark night,
calls to mind the days of yore and points to faith's implore,
though the night be dark with tempests howling cold and strong,
she tends belief of right o'er wrong with quiet song,
and settles down to dream of Springtime's coming store!
- D. Benning
Some say the world will end in fire
