Edge of Autumn

We are at the edge of autumn here in Michigan, and it is a long season.  My birthday is in November, and I always find it a dreary time - all greys and browns, dim light and short days.  Edna St. Vincent Millay sums it up nicely:

THE DEATH OF AUTUMN
When reeds are dead and a straw to thatch the marshes,
And feathered pampas-grass rides into the wind
Like aged warriors westward, tragic, thinned
Of half their tribe, and over the flattened rushes,
Stripped of its secret, open, stark and bleak,
Blackens afar the half-forgotten creek,--
Then leans on me the weight of the year, and crushes
My heart.  I know that Beauty must ail and die,
And will be born again,--but ah, to see
Beauty stiffened, staring up at the sky!
Oh, Autumn!  Autumn!--What is the Spring to me?

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