fall poem

among the smoke and fog of a december afternoon
all quiet along the potomac
against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
it was the autumn of the year
with lips blood red and heart of stone
i heard the wind all day
to what shall a woman liken her beloved
a sky that has never known sun, moon or stars
now for a brisk and cheerful fight
gone before us
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
sleep, gray brother of death