FOREBODING

O linger late, poor yellow whispering leaves!

As yet the eves

Are golden and the simple moon looks through

The clouds and you.

O linger yet although the night be blind,

And in the wind

You wake and lisp and shiver at the stir

And sigh of her

Whose rimy fingers chill you each and all:

And so you fall

As dead as hopes or dreams or whispered vows....

O then the boughs

That bore your busy multitude shall feel

The cold light steal

Between them, and the timorous child shall start,

Hearing his heart

Drubbing affrighted at the frail gates, for lo,

The ghostly glow

Of the wild moon, caught in the barren arms

Of leafless branches loud with night's alarms!