By Your silvery flakes, icy cool falls, like a song,

By Your silvery flakes,
Icy cool falls like a dress,
On me,
And me sees
How me lies there
Harvested,
Cropped,
How me like a September nineteen
By You,
Gets a lease...

And my eyes read
Night of a light,
Yellowish low,
But sacred, pure,
No soft tap
On window pane,
No blue lamp,

For me hath got no thing
To Meet at night
And Part in the early hours of the morning,
For in me Browning*
arrives like a boat ride,
Of a soul, as me beholds
The Harvest of lingering Moon,
And the road by golden silvery swoon,
Always shines, in me straight,
Like a write, of a life,
With no arrival
And no departure,
Like a constant,
Eternal feature,

For a fall equinox post
Calls in a Golden Frost,#
Of being lost in dreams,
Of life as a scene of
The Real,
You,

For morns
And evenings
In me equally sing,
Silvery flakes,
Golden dress,
And The Sublime,
Of Your Wine,
The Divine.

(Note: * Robert Browning, the poet, who once wrote 'Meeting at the Night' and 'Parting at morning', two poems, as companions,
# Robert Frost, the  poet,
thinking his famous line:'And miles to go before I sleep...')