The Pensive Autumn (Huub de Lange)

I love October better than divine
May’s quick upsurge of life;
The pensive autumn is more nearly mine
With its quiet surcease from strife.

Softened by mist, the luminous eves unfold
Their shining in the west,
And, trembling from each twig, few, few, but gold
Flutter the leaves to rest.

Tiptoe with hope stood spring, but autumn lies
In patience and in faith,
Resigning her, mid sumptuous obsequies,
To the gentle hand of death.

To the sweet fruition of all earthly bloom
Spring looks, but autumn, she
To the mystic burgeoning beyond the tomb
Of our ultimate mystery.

Float, opalescent canopies of cloud:
Drop, leaves, to be her pall:
Here lies our hope, full glorious in her shroud,
And perishing, promiseth all.