Fall

It will not come before something dies
   and returns to the earth to be digested;
Before the world's principal souls all sigh
   in tired unison, ready for warmth to be wrested
      from their arms by darkness and damp decay;
   Before greens have deepened and rain is wasted,
      running off unused from soil where once it gave
         life to the proud few that could bear its weight;
      And there will be nothing, when it comes, to save,
         for death and bitter consumption will breed hate
      in those who lasted out the long summer, will deprave
   the few survivors who've time and bile tasted;
      And when it comes there will be nothing to say,
   for hatred cannot live long in those it has infested
if speech and those who'd use it are not stultified;
   The last word will be heard and the last metal tested,
and when it comes there will be nothing left to die.