I garb the mourners for summer's demise,
I am the least of the faery
I am the trickster more clever than wise;
Untutored, unfettered, unwary.
I am the leaf-painter, sometimes I deign
To make lace that will melt in the morning.
I herald a harvest of blessing and bane,
A promise I bring, and a warning--

Life is a carousel, laden with mirth;
Reach for the ring as it passes!
Harvest time's bounty turns swiftly to dearth;
Fill up your bowls and your glasses.
The leaves they are burning in colors so rare;
The wind picks the brighest for wearing,
But winter she dances with stars in her hair,
Turned-away, cold, and uncaring.

Summer was hot, it was golden and bright,
But death there can be no denying.
Make your own warmth now, and make your own light,
For the cold of the winter comes crying.
The dead who forsook us are gathering near,
As Hallow's eve opens the portal;
The wind walks beside you to breathe in your ear,
"Remember, O man, you are mortal."