The time of ripening is upon us,
the heavy, languid, fulsome time ,
ripe to harvest natures bounty
and reap the plenty of the land.
Comely Zephyrus follows fading summer
a-singing a haunting last refrain,
before the chilling hand of Boreas
wildly heralds a withered land.
Forests are sighing, softly weeping
their golden leaves winnow down,
hear the music of their dying
as they kiss the frosted ground.
A noon-tide haze of pallid sunshine
a silvered mist along the valley,
the heady scent of mast and berry
and every creature harks to Pan.
