  Killing the light, Blurring the stars, Marring the breeze— Nature's many-stringed harp— It comes Silently, sinisterly, Over the land, over the sea, Spreading its beggar-raiment of brown. Without stop, without sound, Over the valley Like a great serpent of silence Coiling around the heart of sound. A damp insidiousness Creeps into the night; A drab numbness sets in Dripping in lugubrious drops From the haggard fingers Of the autumn trees. It strangles the last sound, It devours the last light, Trembles in fear To see its own visage; It moves on, on, and around, Ceaselessly, untiringly, Till the black night is drowned In an abyss of brown. |
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