In sere wreaths autumn is swaying. Crimson leaves flutter, fall. Mist is gathering, crows croak. Yet once more, wearily, the sun is shining. On the still lake, upon the little bridge, leaning over the old, crooked, moss-rotted, wooden railings under the dark, gigantic plane-trees' serpent-colored branches, I stand and stare into a mirrored Paradise. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MEDITATION ON A JUNE EVENING by CONRAD AIKEN SUSSEX DRINKING SONG by HILAIRE BELLOC CONTRA MORTEM: THE BEING AS MOMENT by HAYDEN CARRUTH SORROW SINGERS by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON AQUATINT FRAMED IN GOLD by AMY LOWELL IN WALKED BUD WITH A PALETTE by CLARENCE MAJOR |