Inglorious Autumn grace

Autumn chill, aye! it does whip too cold
ripples of yellow leaves, dance in rolling fold
Beautiful scene that the spring had weaved
is crumpled to dry, all juice now wry and sieved
Oh Keats! hast thou ever felt the extreme bourn
of deplore that autumn would grimly mourn
to witness his exulting castle of hope melt
and to bear that enormously afflictive welt
just a pretty sight and now its gone away
lots of melodies humming,now no word to say
he saw those green leaves, and now they shed
cold and withered,his pains,voicelessly unsaid
All good was there then, and now all is gone
priced pleasure perished,as the autumn was born
his ill-starred fate, relentlessly cursed by all
in those chill whips of wind,yet he stands tall
year after year he comes,as an unwelcome'd hermit
inglorious grace,no gleaming glamor does befit
Oh thou!misconstrued, Oh recluse! anchorite
standing cold and solitary,in the withered white
when all the melodies just lament to the dead
and no blooming blossoms, all beauties behead
if I could, I shalt surely sing, thee lore
with my best wishes, truly from my core

-- Swetha Bhagwat