Autumn

This land is bright as blaze of hell
Here a thousand burned and fell,
This land is not of life but death,
Still, its beauty steals away the breath
Most like the light of any heaven,
But through these fiery surges flies the raven.
Here, flames blow with such an ire,
Though not made of heat or fire,
But the glow of autumn leaves,
That come creeping in like thieves.
Fall's the season that is most like hell,
When death sings his song and tolls the knell.