Who's privid to this season's night?
Is it from nowhere that what I'm feeling,
And could there be more shades of bright?
Was it the mist embracing me with passion
Or only streetlights abruptly going out?
That must've been someone's name comforting with compassion
Or just a biting wind that struck me with a clout.
Was it a gale that howls like a hermit,
Or rain that comes as a quiver of fright?
That would be Autumn, I've probably heard it.
And though, its coddle is unruffled and light.
Here it's tiptoeing and I'm nothing, but panting
Welcoming it as if I'm always stone-still.
Will I ever forget all its gold, and cold chanting?
I won't, and neither someone or other will.
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