– 60 –

Fall

Autumn, I think, now.

Rose hues assume a deeper intensity.
Little birds flying in from far in the wild bush
Pursue insects boldly even into our parlours.

The play of the winds is less turbulent:
They scatter gently forespent petallage,
And a scent of ripe seeds is borne on their soft gusts.

To-day I do not perceive the outcry of young folk;
Perhaps they are helping to get in some harvest,
Or far afield for important ball-games.

Only old men pause by the sunny roadside
Noticing the same sights that I have noticed,
And listening to the same quietness.

We do not regret that we are of ripe years;
We do not complain of grey hairs and infirmities;
We are drowsy and very ready to fall into deep sleep.