A Dead Harvest

IN KENSINGTON GARDENS.

Along the graceless grass of town They rake the rows of red and brown,-- Dead leaves, unlike the rows of hay Delicate, touched with gold and grey, Raked long ago and far away.

A narrow silence in the park, Between the lights a narrow dark, One street rolls on the north; and one, Muffled, upon the south doth run; Amid the mist the work is done.

A futile crop!--for it the fire Smoulders, and, for a stack, a pyre. So go the town's lives on the breeze, Even as the sheddings of the trees; Bosom nor barn is filled with these.