fall poem

with the meek, brown eyes
let me move slowly through the street
when freedom from her mountain height
simply speaking
there are three ways in which men take
what spiteful chance steals unawares
for i was a gaunt, grave councillor
why are the things that have no death
and my name is truthful
for then without
when you come tonight
among the smoke and fog of a december afternoon
i saw him once before