XIX. In Yellow   Yellow is the color of loss, and yellow leaves, Airborne aslant the wind, hit the eaves Of love's cool house, or clidder fear of falling, Sway in the wind's wrench, then heed the calling Of the ground, the sullen ground of fall— Moist, cold, yellow itself with withered grass. What dies? the summer asks. In answer, all Is silence, silence in God's rooms, where pass By windows humid with anticipated winter The leaves, the lemon leaves. They splinter When we step the yellow, autumn carpet Where walks were. They shatter when we let Our feet fall on desiccation, tatters Of yellow fabric, rags. But nothing matters.