Ripe Autumn is a lovely time for purposes of facile rhyme that trippingly come to the pen to gladden hearts of writing men, and so I haste, before it goes, to raise this slab of rhyming prose: a stone for Autumn, dying Autumn, when, because the mood has caught 'em, bards, like birds, tho' scant of words, needs must sing as nature taught 'em.
Since Autumn lingers late this year time yet remains for stating here how bards insist that Autumn "grieves' because it rhymes so well with "leaves"; and likewise with the "warm wet breeze" that gently stirs the "painted trees" in Autumn, Autumn, lovely Autumn, glowing where the sun has caught 'em. Let us then, of rhyming men, hold this laggard last post-mortem.
In such a mood it seems to me a man is very like a tree, casting off as summer dies the garb of gaudy butterflies; yet not, like trees, to winter grim presenting an unsheltered limb; but, wrapping further foliage about them, men fear Winter's rage when Autumn, Autumn, trait'rous Autumn blowing hot and cold has bought 'em qualms and chills and various ills that give 'em toko when they've caught 'em.
Autumn, farewell, farewell, farewell! This repetition suits me well. Crook rhyming, but in point of fact, it keeps the rhythmic beat intact; and, tho' this song's a silly thing, you must admit it has a swing. Oh, Autumn, Autumn, niggard Autumn! (Rhymes are rarer than I'd thought 'em). The last bird grieves. Sweep up the leaves. Farewell! Goodbye! Hic facet Autumn.
|Copyright © Perry Middlemiss 2002-06|