fall poetry

often is it not so?
beside a stricken field
see i give myself to you
when i go back to earth
over the river, on the hill
had he and i but met
in your arms was still delight
she might have known it in the earlier spring
the saddest of the year
do the boys and girls still go
rocked in the cradle of the deep
eighty years have passed, and more
a mist was driving down