My Last Autumn


As all the leaves begin to curl
And change from green to red
I watch them through the windowpanes
That stand beside my bed.
And down below one burning branch
A mossy stone I spy
Engraved in moldered lettering
Where soon my bones may lie.
Or am I now already dead
Buried beneath the loam
And dreaming of my sylvan youth
My thoughts now turned to home?
How often have I wondered as
I watched the evening sun
Paint gold each glowing windowpane
How soon my death may come?
How often have I wandered down
That flaming path alone
That leads into that yellow wood
And ends beside that stone?
I know that place upon the hill
So well I feel that I
Have seen it there a thousand years
Perhaps I shall not die?

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