Nightfall

There's nothing like November sun,
if billows will allow,
when westerlies are on the run
before the schooner prow...
 
as if to race the chariot,
at Apollo's command,
in beauty multivariate
above the sea and land.
 
And by the blaze of stellar beams
old autumn dies in gold
to set the tone for winter dreams
in polar vortex cold;
 
that deepest cold, where Phoebus sleeps,
and skies turn chasm blue
when argent tinsel starlight creeps...
into empyreal view!