The Year, an aged holy priest,
In gorgeous vestments clad,
Now celebrates the solemn feast
Of Autumn, sweet and sad.
The Sun, a contrite thurifer
After his garish days,
Through lessening arch, a wavy blur,
His burnish'd censer sways.
The Earth, - an altar all afire
Her hecatombs to claim,
Shoots upward many a golden spire
And crimson tongue of flame.
Like Jethro's shepherd, when he turn'd
In Midian's land to view
The bush that unconsuming burn'd,
I pause - and worship, too.
Autumn
W. M. Mackeracher
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Poem topics: autumn, sad, sun, earth, sweet, tongue, claim, flame, holy, year, view, golden, gorgeous, crimson, worship, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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