I close my eyes to the sun. A rare warmth on my face. Leaves from branches come undone, and on the wind they race. They sway and swirl upon the breeze, which brings the winter chill. And dance as delicately as they please, until they've had their fill. Reds and oranges mix with stubborn greens. Sunlight with biting cold. Ordinary autumn scenes, do make a heart grow old. You see a heart lives and dies, as seasons take their turns. It fills with ice and frozen cries, and for the warmth it yearns. And thus it summons memory, to soothe it with delusion. And gorge itself on reverie, made up of cruel illusion. So think not of roses, let the world be chilled. Warm ye your noses, and let your heart be filled. With humble hearths and family, food, and drink, and song. And take each day thankfully, and you will live long. Live with kindness and grace, even in the snow. Put a smile on your face, and you'll be warm, you know.