Her diadem jewel is the morning rain
That falls from a pale, gilded sky,
'Tis also her earthy-sweet herald
Telling all that autumn grows nigh.

The wood is dressed for the harvest,
Her crimson and umber aglow,
In the thicketed manse of the raven,
Where all the world's mysteries grow.

My autumn is found in a candle,
Sagacity cloaked in its light,
Her flame warms me deep to the marrow,
Through all of the dark, blessed night.