All hushed of glee,
The last chill bee
Clings wearily
To the dying aster.
The leaves dropp faster:
And all around, red as disaster,
The forest crimsons with tree on tree.
A butterfly,
The last to die,
Wings heavily by,
Weighed down with torpor.
The air grows sharper;
And the wind in the trees, like some sad harper,
Sits and sorrows with sigh on sigh.
The far crows call;
The acorns fall;
And over all
The Autumn raises
Dun mists and hazes,
Through which her soul, it seemeth, gazes
On ghosts and dreams in carnival.
The end is near;
The dying Year
Leans low to hear
Her own heart breaking,
And Beauty taking
Her flight, and all my dreams forsaking
My soul, bowed down 'mid the sad and sere.
