Xlviii

The dead gold of the marybud, The dusky, tarnished orange-red Of zinnias, flush the flower-bed, Like frosty autumn gleams that scud Tempestuous dusks and stormy dawns Above the wind-dishevelled lawns.

With tired eyes and heart grown grave, And thoughts more weary than the night, I watch the dwindling of the light, And hear the rising night-winds rave, As one might hear, when half asleep, Another self make moan and weep.