  Slow sinks the sun,—a great carbuncle ball Red in the cavern of a sombre cloud,— And in her garden, where the dense weeds crowd. Among her dying asters stands the Fall, Like some lone woman in a ruined hall, Dreaming of desolation and the shroud; Or through decaying woodlands goes, down-bowed, Hugging the tatters of her gipsy shawl. The gaunt wind rises, like an angry hand, And sweeps the sprawling spider from its web, Smites frantic music in the twilight's ear; And all around, like melancholy sand, Rains dead leaves down—wild leaves, that mark the ebb, In Earth's dark hour-glass, of another year. |
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