Carouse

Autumn, in her scarlet cloak, Comes tumbling down the hills. Oh, she is tipsy with her dreams That the blue day distils; An amber cup is in her hands From which the wonder spills. Now leaf and vine turn golden brown, And purple asters shine Along the roads where Autumn runs, Drunken with mystic wine. The world is one vast tapestry Of intricate design. Where Autumn lurches through the dusk In raiment wildly red, A crowd of urchins follow her, With many a tousled head⁠— Chrysanthemums, like naughty boys, Driving the crone to bed!