The Remainder of the Poetic Cycle

It may seem somewhat late to post the autumn poem, as it has already snowed, and may seem somewhat early to post the winter poem, as it is not yet December. However, I have decided to conclude this poetic cycle at this time, and move to a differently themed series of posts, perhaps one whose subject matter can be reasonably updated more frequently.

Autumn

But as this year's life drags along its path,
A gloomy darkness transfixes the clouds.
The golden wheat is reaped for toil's reward,
But its grey stalks soon crumple in cold dirt.
The sorrowed oak trees drop their brownish leaves
And willows wilt, casting long umbral shades.
The sable ravens croak forth requiems
As everything with life withers away.
The trees are each laid bare, the aster-plants
Turn grey, a sadness to the weathered eyes.
As pumpkins, deathly fruit, grow in night's grasp
The final show of colour's glory dims
As sorrow's heart strikes its dark twilight beat.

Winter

The elder year is crippled, dying fast-
Cold enters bones and nerves of every thing.
Dead grasses fade into black dusty grime,
And limp and leafless trees stand towering high
As sable beacons of this futile age,
While silver clouds are clustered in the sky.
From these white heavens come down an alban shroud
Of snow, a final resting beauteous touch
That glazes the vast world in stabbing cold's
Cruel knives, and wreathes every dark bough.
The old year smiles as its new heir is born
And breathes its last, is buried in soft snow,
And then departs forever to the heights.