Lvi

The ghost of what was loveliness Sits in the waning woods, with bare And bleeding feet, and wintry hair, And brows the thorns of care distress; She makes a passion of despair And, Rachel-like, with eyes wept red, Refuses to be comforted.

To funeral torches for the Year, Tree by tall tree, the forests turned; Then, fiery coals in ashes, burned A few last leaves among the sear; Where, robed in purple pomp, she yearned To die, like some sad queen, and died Crowned with magnificence and pride.