To a Lady, VIII

The spirits are pulling the sere dry leaves, Of the shadowy forest, down; And howl the gaunt reapers that gather the sheaves, With the moon, o’er their revels, to frown: To-morrow ye’ll find all their spoils in your path, And ye’ll speak of the wind and the sky; But oh could ye see them to-night, in their wrath, I ween ye’d be frenzied of eye!