I

I marked the slow withdrawal of the year,

Out on the hills the scarlet maples shone —

The glad, first herald of triumphant dawn.

A robin's song fell through the silence — clear

As long ago it rang when June was here.

Then, suddenly, a few grey clouds were drawn

Across the sky; and all the song was gone,

And all the gold was quick to disappear,

That day the sun seemed loth to come again;

And all day long the low wind spoke of rain,

Far off, beyond the hills; and moaned, like one

Wounded, among the pines: as though the Earth,

Knowing some giant grief had come to birth,

Had wearied of the Summer and the Sun.