Omens

Sad on the hills the poppied sunset died. Slow as a fungus breaking through the crusts Of forest leaves, the waning half-moon thrusts Through gray-brown clouds one milky silver side; In her vague light the dogwoods, dim-descried, Seem dying torches flourished by the gusts; The apple-orchards seem the restless dusts Of wind-thinned mists upon the hills they hide. It is a night of omens whom late May Meets, like a wraith, among her train of hours; An apparition with appealing eye And hesitant foot, that walks a willowed way, And, speaking through the fading moon and flowers, Bids her prepare her gentle soul to die.