Returning To Church's Autumn Morning Poem by Neburlar Viscosity

I remember the tree, a golden hue spilling
in the due of morning. It stood out, motionless,
stretching its boughs over the Artless landscape.

The remissful wind could callous the branches,
twig the trees, but the gentle leaves allowed
their petty coy to litter the green with color,

as though the cruel and meek winter winds,
stricken with fear, would let the patient sun
rest her head among the craven of a moonless
night without the staidly melody of melancholy.

Rash thoughts do not frugally breathe the same air,
nor taste the vainly shine; its lines are stolen.
The beauty of the fallen leaf is wary to the sense:
it is only with the breeze do you see the fickleness.