Classic Poem

As some monastic scrivener in his cell,
Sensing a chill along the stony crypt,
Might labour yet more gorgeously to spell
The final, splendid entries of his script,--
So with bright rubrics has the Autumn writ
A coloured chronicle of things that pass,
Thumbing a yellow parchment that is lit
With brief, illumined letters through the grass.

With what a prodigality of stains,
Is fashioned this last entry and design,
By one aware of cold, approaching rains,--
Who senses, through each iridescent line,
A presence at the shoulder--chills and blights,
Winds that will snuff his letters out like lights.