The array of autumn's show
Would be stranded in perfection.
The mirror of trust hangs below
Without its desired reflecton.
What's next, I wonder,
In the hearth of lustful wake?
Amidst a struggle of pine thrush plunder,
Needles descend into the lake.

And how should our love move
In the daylight's dawning croon?
We fall with the weather, too-
In the abandon of the moon.