Painting by Seasons 1

Autumn has come and I have seen,

Where she has painted out the green,

Each yellowy leaf, now crispy brown,

Now white with frost an icy down.

Bare the trees, they bear no shade,

As shadows lengthen and nights invade,

To make the day a shorter thing,

The sun now low and faltering.

Strange to think the mighty oak,

When filled green and summer soaked,

Has met with Autumn a hundred times

And bears her art in furrowed lines.

Now tall and empty, quiet and still

So Autumn's brush meets Winter's quill.