Sonnet In Late Autumn

Her green dress traded for a cloak of brown Which falls in whispers down the avenue, The lady wears, in nakedness, a frown, Her face is tanned a melancholy hue; Her coldness harsh' caresses every cheek, Her rising zephyr to a tempest blows, Her grimace deepens, no more is she meek, But tears with icy fingers through my clothes. Her lovers swift' depart her wilderness, Now she is friendless as a maid can be, None willingly endure her frigidness, The few who do, must, of necessity; Her jaded afternoon gives way to night, Another month, her brown cloak turns to white.