Something stirs that once had life. It drops</br>Into the stream, a last act of faith.</br>Seedballs of sycamore, incautious leaves of willow,</br>Th… - Donald Davidson

This is an autumn when they come no more.</br>Beech leaves yellow and fall, the beech-mast rots</br>Uneaten. Infertile now the beech</br>Hollows its heart, begetting naught.</br>There is frost on the grandson's eyes,</br>And only rumor upon the skies...

The sky drips its spectral </br>And Gods, like men, to soot revert.</br>Gone is the mild, the serene air.</br>The golden years are come too late.</br>Pursue not wisdom or virtue here,</br>But what blind motion, what dim last</br>Regret of men who slew their past</br>Raised up this bribe against their fate.

We mourned with you then in brotherhood,</br>And I'll weep with you now for those whose names</br>Burn on your monuments like altar flames.