November 17

From first the woods, whose hallowed, golden halls
still raise up leaf on leaf, and bid depart,
the lights the city leaves are gleaming balls,
forest fairies, half theory and half art.

But street and sidewalk, strewn in autumns scrap
and winters drool, and oil: grandiloquent.
They burn and dull the eyes. The stars, they cap.
They waste these thoughts to thoughts of money spent.

So from the air, the void, burnt black as night
and cold as ice, they dim like drenching fires,
gasping and glowing artificial light,
greeting the dark with fast fading desires.

I'll take my wing and feather o'er her back,
the days are short, the nights are growing long.
"You are so warm," she coos. The east is black.
I will not blink but for the morning's song.

Return to me, you severed spark of day.
I'm young of heart, and I have lost my way.