Fall (A Spenserian Stanza)

The earth, confused, dislodged from standard course;

Implicitly, all feel the growing touch

Of change. Abide each spirit that divorce;

Abides the soul which sight of glory struck

And apprehends the deprivation’s nudge.

A basket, vacant, hails the plunging fruit,

The rip’ning juice ensnared from months of drudge.

Yet fawning orchard’s dream, excitement, moot,

For, broke, the trance disowning winter’s due commute!


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