A gentle song – no cold pastoral here,
But rather, lightly strummed by every breeze
That plucks its way across the gold veneer
Imposed by Autumn’s touch, the branches sing:
Of slowly pressing waves, all dressed in white;
Of wand’ring into dream; of distant Spring;
Of seas of warmer climes at dawn; the light
Of every peaceful thing, a symphony
Of happy chords and sounds. And soft, he hears,
Announcing in one voice, the apogee
Of nature’s noise speak secrets in his ears,
And listens to the insubstantial song,
While in his dearest dreams, he sings along.
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