Approaching Night

The lower'd skies are grey; the trees are bare.

A week ago they gleam'd in splendid rows

Of gold and crimson; now in gaunt despair

They stand like ghosts above new-fallen snows.

The world seems even greyer than the skies.

‘ Twas yesterday the homeward-honking geese

Fled as from death. They know too well what lies

Behind this sinister, foreboding peace!