Be warned, for winter’s tease is all about.
Slight chill is in the air. Her glance is there.
Such danse macabre comes with October’s rout
when crimson leaves burn, withering and drear.
When colors drunk with frost and wind so high,
they swirl through trees and bend them to ground,
their righteous voices moaning for reply.
Gold-parted souls, though, never to be found.
Forgotten are the dead , yet still they dance
in summer’s lost frivolities and tunes;
like heart’s marooned in short-lived autumn trance
like sigh that is dispersed with solemn runes.
Oh, dance, my love, before our fiery tears
bring on the looming threat as winter nears.