She tossed her green but faded frock Upon a maple tree; Wise Autumn dyed it crimson And wore it frugally. Her lace, by sullen spider spun, Bleached white at break of day, She flung upon a blackened branch Before she tripped away. Her coral beads now hang forgot Upon a rose bush high; She left them there to dangle Between the earth and sky. She took dawn's crystal stopper out And wasted her perfume Where grow the white musk roses In mystic bridal bloom. The molten gold of sunsets She spent quite recklessly In gilding all the mountains And burnishing the sea. I fear she is a wastrel, A spendthrift, soon and late, And yet I must defend her, This lovely profligate! |