The Death of Autumn

When reeds are dead and straw to thatch the marshes,
And feathered pampas-grass rides into the wind
Like Agèd warriors westward, tragic, thinned
Of half their tribe; an over the flattened rushes,
Stripped of its secret, open, stark and bleak,
Blackens afar the half-forgotten creek,—
Then leans on me the weight of the year, and crushes
My heart. I know that beauty must ail and die,
And will be born again,—but ah, to see
Beauty stiffened, staring up at the sky!
Oh, Autumn! Autumn!—What is the Spring to me?