When planets glow before Aurora’s rise
and stars seem scattered ‘cross the moonless skies.
I walk the leafy paths that take me home;
I have no inclination, now, to roam.
I pass the trembling trees whose leaves have bled
and share the secret sorrow they have shed.
The dawn is breaking, far off, in the east
and sounds of sighing ghosts have long-since ceased.
‘Neath rolling clouds upon the heathered vales
the dew drops wet the wings of nightingales,
as they seek solace ‘mong the brightening bowers,
shelter from cruel autumn’s senseless showers.
And I walk on, down too familiar lanes;
I hurry, to avoid the coming rains.
I mutter to myself; that’s just my age.
And peevish poets often rant and rage.