Sad Autumn Sandrine Bonnant After William Shakespeare Sonnet Lxxiii Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

Sad Autumn, turncoat, sheds its coat of leaves,
Anticipates wild Winter's shivering cold,
No trace of Summer stays, though, threadbare, cleaves
Despondently a handful, rotten, old.
Reflect on them should e'er you think of me,
In whom is mirrored twilight which the Gods
Need soon reclaim to set one spirit free.
Earth claims our rest[s] to fertilize the sods.
Burns strong through verse the embers of my fire,
Original and blessed with welcome flame,
New trimmed the wick that strings my modest lyre,
Neutral never, drawn to you whose fame
Abides eternal! Worth this verse contains
Through you, not of itself sings sweet refrains!