Upon hills huddled together,Upon rugged fields of heather,On a grey November morning,Autumn happened without warning. Skeletal, long-limbed, berserk,Sprinkling nature through the murkWith a branch of poison oakWielded with a spiteful jerk,Autumn's spreading all aroundAs it spreads its ample cloak –Muddy drops,Leaves on the ground,Sneezing fits,Drizzles that soak… As it rolls from mountain tops,Bringing fearsAnd shedding tears,All the thistles of the vale Squat for shelter in the waste,While wild roses in its pathGreet the specter with "All hail"And bow down in frightened haste… On the hillside, in a thicket,From his mud house, looking lost,Out has come a little cricket,Black as pitch, a mere midget,Its wings powdered with the frost: "Creak-creak-creak,Autumn bleak,I just hoped you wouldn't sneakUpon me till Christmas comes.Could have picked some grains or crumbs(For supplies are rather scant),So I wouldn't have to borrowFrom my neighbor, Madame Ant,For she never ever lends,And cries out unto the endsOf the world, mocking my sorrow,Telling neighbors that I beg…
Since you're here," he sadly sighed,Lifting up a tiny leg,"Since you're here, I cannot hide… Creak-creak-creak,Autumn bleak,I'm so small and mystified…"
by George Topîrceanu (1886-1937)
