Iii

Evening

The shivering wind sits in the oaks, whose limbs, Twisted and tortured, nevermore are still; Grief and decay sit with it; they, whose chill Autumnal touch makes hectic red the rims Of all the oak-leaves; desolating, dims The ageratum’s blue that banks the rill; And splits the milkweed’s pod upon the hill, And shakes it free of the last seed that swims. Down goes the day despondent to its close: And now the sunset’s hands of copper build A tower of brass, behind whose burning bars, The Day, in fierce, barbarian repose, Like some imprisoned Inca sits, hate-filled, Crowned with the gold corymbus of the stars.