Hallowmas

All hushed of glee, The last chill bee Clings wearily To the dying aster: The leaves drop faster: And all around, red as disaster, The forest crimsons with tree on tree.

A butterfly, The last to die, Droops heavily by, Weighed down with torpor: The air grows sharper: And the wind in the trees, like some sad harper, Sits and sorrows with sigh on sigh.

The far crows call; The acorns fall; And over all The Autumn raises Dun mists and hazes, Through which her soul, it seemeth, gazes On ghosts and dreams in carnival.

The end is near: The dying Year Leans low to hear Her own heart breaking, And Beauty taking Her flight, and all her dreams forsaking Her soul, bowed down ’mid the sad and sere.