Sonnet CLXXXVIII

A pity autumn colours fleet too soon:
I would have gathered them within the arms
of memory, but now I am alarmed
because their beauty is escaping far too soon
to far off worlds, of which there’s endless noon.
And there is where great happiness is farmed
and painted with my fleeting hues afar,
conditioned with the silver rays of moons.
But staying with me skeletons of trees
shall comfort me, as aging, turn to white.
Their emptiness apparent from their knees
and skinny arms, both starved by gloomy night.
Yet neither trees nor I shall cry or weep,
but reach toward the moons where losses die.