The autumn day is almost spent. And yet

No length' ning shadows mark the sun's decline,

For all is shadowed by the cold, gray mist

Which long has driven with the fitful wind,

And still it is not gone. How chill the air!

It seems but yesterday that summer's breath,

Sultry and dry, distressed the thirsty fields—

And now the skies, repentant of their fault,

Will more than make amends. It rains again,

Beating a doleful measure on the pane,

Sobbing in sad, wild cadence through the street

While ever 'mid the rising, falling strains

The eaves drop notes as those of muffled drum,

Alone in rhythm, save, perchance, the beat

Of some tired horse's hoofs, as, homeward bound,

He treads the flooded pavement stones. And now

The sun, weary of contest for the day,

Forsakes the scene and sinks away to rest,

Leaving the world to darkness and to rain.