Autumn and Death

They are coy, these sisters, Autumn and Death,And they both have learnt what it is to wait.Not a leaf is jarred by their cautious breath,The little feather-weightPetals of climbing convolvulusAre scarcely even tremulous.

Who hears Autumn moving downThe garden-paths? Who marks her headAbove the oat-sheaves? A leaf gone brownOn the ash, and a maple-leaf turned red—Yet a rose that's freshly blownSeals your eyes to the change in these,For it's mostly green about the trees.

And Death with her silver-slippered feet,Do you hear her walk by your garden-chair?The cool of her hand makes a tempered heat,That's all, and the shadow of her hairIs curiously sweet.Does she speak? If so, you have not heard;The whisper of Death is without a word.

The sisters, Autumn and Death, with strangeLong silences, they bide their time,Nor ever step beyond the rangeAllotted to a pantomime.But the soundless hours chime,One after one, and their faces growTo an altered likeness, slow—slow.

Grim is the face which Autumn turnsTo a sky all bare of obscuring leaves,And her hair is red as a torch where it burnsIn the dry hearts of the oaten sheaves.But Death has a face which yearnsWith a gaunt desire upon its prey,And Death's dark face hides yesterday.

Then Autumn holds her hands to touchDeath's hands, and the two kiss, cheek by cheek,And one smiles to the other, and the smiles say much,And neither one has need to speak.Two gray old sisters, suchAre Autumn and Death when their tasks are done,And their world is a world where a blackened sunShines like ebony over the floesOf a shadeless ice, and no wind blows.