Now autumn’s fire consumes the verdant leaves,

Transforming green to gold in glory grand;

Each cycle shows the seasons held in lease,

That none of great or good forever stand.

The bounty of midsummer lies aflame,

Its ripened fruit prepared at last to fall;

The painted gourds that trumpet harvest’s fame

Shall grace all horns of plenty, great or small.

Though Time is feared—severe, invincible,

A tyrant crowned with ruin, dread and loss—

The solstice, equinox make clear his will

Stay bound to Heaven’s law, not to his dross;

Thus, Time subdued, begrudging what is done:

Must dance unto the tune of Heaven’s sun.