It, for its turn is come, and I, for grief’s my autumn mate.”
* * * * *
“Autumn goes
And winter’s storms will leave the forest no repose.
“The weeping, whining wind is singing for the autumn forest’s death,
The golden trees are weeping leaves of gold into the mountains’ chilly breath.
“Some of them now are shedding all their blood-stained cloaks, and soon
Each one shall stand denuded, brave and stark as Bisitun.[92]
“Their boughs displayed—not long ago—tints a hundred thousand fold,
So that the hot blood-feud, hunting in their glades, from awe grew cold.