At The Window

The pine trees bend to listen to the autumn wind as it mutters Something which sets the black poplars ashake with hysterical laughter; While slowly the house of day is closing its eastern shutters.

Further down the valley the clustered tombstones recede Winding about their dimness the mists' grey cerements, after The street-lamps in the twilight have suddenly started to bleed.

The leaves fly over the window and whisper a word as they pass To the face that leans from the darkness, intent, with two eyes of darkness That watch forever earnestly from behind the window glass.