The winter will be short, the summer long, The autumn amber-hued, sunny and hot, Tasting of cider and of scuppernong; All seasons sweet, but autumn best of all. The squirrels in their silver fur will fall Like falling leaves, like fruit, before your shot.
Elinor WylieIn masks outrageous and austere The years go by in single file; But none has merited my fear, And none has quite escaped my smile.
Elinor Wylie