William James and Autumn by Leonard Bacon (1940)

Partakers of the life of God,
Drunkards of the Divine — what else? —
We face the serpent or the rod
And buckle truth within our belts —

Truth that strange thing that must describe
The instant feeling of a man,
Nor shirk the emotions of the tribe,
That all must know or no one can.

That, it is felt, the man should feel.
What man? What throb should touch him so,
Who beats at barriers that conceal
The mysteries he can never know?

He fronts the scorpions and the whips,
With such devices as he can,
Dazzled by each apocalypse
That tells him nothing. Man! Man! Man!

O Autumn! What you tell us is
Written on the world’s face in fire.
You touch on instabilities
Of hope gone by, withered desire.

O Autumn! dreaming of the Spring,
Without a spirit or a name,
You face the death that is a Thing
And shudder at the brutal game

That you are called upon to play.
You did not ask for it, but there
Oaks burn and maples blaze away,
And the whole thing is your affair.

O Autumn! Winter’s in the wind
Chill dawn lets loose. There is a tang
In that harsh breath. The sin we sinned
Hurts. And who asks what song we sang?