Look, how those steep woods on the mountain's face
Burn, burn against the sunset; now the cold
Invades our very noon: the year's grown old,
Mornings are dark, and evenings come apace.
The vines below have lost their purple grace,
And in Forreze the white wrack backward rolled,
Hangs to the hills tempestuous, fold on fold,
And moaning gusts make desolate all the place.
Mine host the month, at thy good hostelry,
Tired limbs I'll stretch and steaming beast I'll tether;
Pile on great logs with Gascon hand and free,
And pour the Gascon stuff that laughs at weather;
Swell your tough lungs, north wind, no whit care we,
Singing old songs and drinking wine together.
One of the few non-melancholy (or downright depressing) autumn poems I could find. Which has always seemed odd to me--aside from the decreasing in sunlight, I find autumn to be rather invigorating, especially because you can finally do stuff outside without becoming drenched in sweat or developing heat exhaustion along the way. Even the chancing of the leaves and dying back of smaller plants has always felt more like preparation for renewal rather than a settled death. Spring is on its way, after all, just takes a little while to get here.