Autumn
Autumn is filling his harvest-bins
With red and yellow grain,
Fire begins and frost begins.
And the floors are cold again.
Summer went when the crop was sold,
"Summer is piled away,
Dry as the faded marigold
In the dry, long-gathered hay.
It is time to walk to the cider-mill
Through air like apple wine
And watch the moon rise over the hill,
Stinging and hard and fine.
It is time to cover your seed-pods deep
And let them wait and be warm,
It is time to sleep the heavy sleep
That does not wake for the storm.
Winter walks from the green streaked West
With a bag of Northern Spies
The skins are red as a robins breast,
The honey chill as the skies.
--Stephen Vincent Benêt,
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