The Poetry of Fall

Days are ending sooner and already I'm finding comfort in sweaters and steaming cups of tea.  Less time is spent outdoors enjoying the sun's warm rays, now I'm resting earlier in the evening.  My dog is more often found sleeping on the edge of my bed.  Poetry moves my soul and the loud music of summer becomes more subdued.  
The leaves are in the midst of changing and suddenly I'm nostalgic like Jacques Prevert when he wrote Barbara.  His poetry wistfully creating vignettes of the sadness inherent in war and love, ruminating on the past.  There's a sweet sorrow one participates in as candles are lit and shadows lengthen.  We consider longer, nurture our moodiness, become quiet.
Whereas I recite the early poetry of Yeats in the summer, the poems of his later years are relished.  Edgar Allen Poe's The Raven and Annabel Lee are annual autumnal favorites around the world and Robert Frost finds new followers.  Dickinson's sunnier poems are disregarded, seeming garish compared to her thoughtful ruminations on mortality.  And Li Po must not be forgotten- his musings on youth and the changing seasons are enjoyed with a glass of deep red wine.
Yes, fall is here.  A loneliness pervades the air, but I am not alone as I have poetry to warm my soul.