Autumn has filled up her apron with gold,
And trailed her bright shawl round the edge of the world.
Evening draws in and the dawn goes acold
When the first brittle flag of the frost is unfurled.
But still the clear moonlight in carelessness spills
O'er hillock and hollow a generous store,
So, Indian summer comes over the hills
Soon, soon to be ended and summer no more.
The Pixies have hung their gay lanterns of red
Where the apple bends under its bright autumn load.
There are white veils of mist on the wild mountain head,
And white sprays of dew down the corduroy road,
Like embers aglow on the dead season's pyre
Lit long, long ago by the priesthood of Pan.
The orchard leaves glimmer with glints of gold fire
Where summer passed by with her proud caravan.
Surely, when our little summer is ending
And winter winds find it, a tale that is told,
With colours and warmth from the gift of her lending
Maybe we'll weave us a cloak from the cold,
Love's crystal chalice will drink to the draining.
(Life's little comedy swiftly is o'er.)
While the star of our Eden dips swift to its waning,
And all of a sudden it's summer no more.
First published in The Brisbane Courier, 15 June 1929
