The stripped and shapely
Maple grieves
The loss of her
Departed leaves.
The ground is hard
As hard as stone.
The year is old
The birds are flown.
And yet the world,
Nevertheless,
Displays a certain
Loveliness.
The beauty of
The bone. Tall God
Must see our souls
This way, and nod.
Give thanks: we do,
Each in his place
Around the table
During Grace.
—John Updike
Aunt Marge