Autumn Lass

Ah, where are you going?
"To autumn," she whispered.
"I'll weep for the dead in the harvest moon's light."
And where will you take me?
"To autumn," she murmured.
"I'll cool your hot forehead with wings of the night."

The rustling of dawn echoes damp with the dewfall,
A hint of the frost lingers sweet in her hair.
Her chin on my shoulder is light as a feather.
Her breast rises trembling, her voice fills the air.

"How weary, my traveller, you seem in the morning;
Less weary, I think, though, than when we first met.
Your skin bristles, shiversome under my fingers.
Your tears betray secrets. I'll help you forget."

Warmed here in her blanket of moss and of copper,
Upon mounds of gold I lie safely in flame.
The tongues of the pyre lap the sweat from my forehead
And sing me to sleep with her secretive name.

I hold her, enraptured by all that she gives me.
To autumn, to autumn I howl to the moon.
I wake to a lonely grass nest in the forest
With snow on my lashes -- my Lady, come home.
Ah, where are you going?
"I shall return soon."