The smiles of summer are lost on me,

I find no secrets in winter

But I have observed almost without fail

Three autumns in every year.

The first—a holiday madness

Thumbing its nose at summer

Leaves fly, like pages from notebooks

the smell of smoke is incense-sweet

and everything’s moist, dappled, bright

First to dance are the birches

Throwing on threadbare garments

Shaking off momentary tears

Onto their neighbours over the fence

But this is just the beginning

A second passes, a minute, and then

Comes another, aloof as conscience

As ominous as an air raid

Everything now seems paler, and older,

the comfort of summer cast out

distant marches of golden trumpets

drift in on the fragrant mist

and the cold waves of its incense

cover the high vault of heaven;

but the wind rushes in, the sky gapes wide,

it’s suddenly clear the drama is ending:

this is no third autumn, this is death.