O heart! The rich, warm, rolling hills to the south
unfold as if they were the stars in bloom.
O soul; the marshes set afire, the clear scent of an old room
touching the crest of the red-leaved bird
that soars your skies to brush the walls of mere remembering,
and see, the gold flows out beneath you!
What of these? O, love! To know
the fingertips ungloved
of all the many autumn trees!
Above, the year's last thunderclouds cast spells of ruin
and below, we roar up laughter, singing:
"See? We laugh, it sounds like rain."