By the windowpane
in the library
so sat Autumn Vayne
with lips nigh cherry,
watching the cold rain,
sad little fairy.
Auburn was her hair
and brown her wet eyes
as she gazed out there
at the mournful skies.
“I wish the sky fair—
not this one which cries.”
Afire were the trees
with their flaring hues—
she sighed like a breeze
or a woman whose
man died overseas.
“Life’s the thing we lose.
Death’s the thing that frees.”
The leaves fell like flames
in the rainy eve
and with them the names
she had yet to grieve—
all the petty games
of such make-believe,
such make-believe love,
the green giving way
to the seasons of
young hearts gone astray
like those leaves above,
all wilting away.
Mournful Autumn Vayne
sat and watched the Fall
of leaves and of rain
and hearts, overall—
a vigil of pain
for the forlorn sprawl.
And she sat there long
till her hair changed, too,
fading fast, ere long,
to a copper hue
like the leaves which throng
an Autumnal view.
Tangleroot And Tressknot 