You know, what I took from this was a rare thing: a seasonal poem about young love in some other season than spring, because young folk do actually fall in love in other seasons and appreciate them for their beauty, not just their handy if somewhat threadbare symbolism.
Looking at autumn as the world unfolding instead of dying is a refreshing thing, and I'll say that having written autumnal poems festooned with all the shrouds and cobwebs I could lay my hands on. In fact, the poet rather carefully has the narrator mention the traditional symbolism and dismiss it item by item as irrelevant to what she or he is feeling at the moment.
Metrically, I'm with Henry. Read aloud, this sounds fine, and the extra length of the final line is deliberate.
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