Now as October approaches, the death 
Of a sharp-tongued old actress marks autumn,
Murmuring, “No more winters to endure.”
  
Often our desires are like toothache 
Throbbing onward with no regard for time, 
Our yearnings no closer to fulfillment.
  
Be grateful that melancholy isn’t
Yours—that it makes its home elsewhere, 
Not that its shadow doesn’t pass over
 
These autumn-bare hills and rain-soaked gardens 
For it does and much feeling is exposed 
Under birdless, monotonous blue skies.