Leaves shudder and blush at your passing, Lord, remembering the days of summer when you, Green and pollen bright danced in the warm, caressing winds proud and vital as the upthrusting oak.

But now the sword-edge of frost looms from the mist balancing night and day, a blade Poised at your throat You shudder, and the leaves shudder with you. You grip your heart to the branch savoring that one last touch. Then you leap Spiraling through the crisp air as you dive upon the frost-blade dying the leaves red with your willing sacrifice.  You rise, your lips pale as the blade buried within you and make your way to the darkened shore at your feet, the leaves rustle and sigh and shudder...and blush at your passing

Lionrhod (1993 or so)