II

I watched the slow oncoming of the Fall.

Slowly the leaves fell from the elms, and lay

Along the roadside; and the wind's strange way

Was their way, when they heard the wind's far call.

The crimson vines that clung along the wall

Grew thin as snow that lives on into May;

Grey dawn, grey noon,— all things and hours were grey,

When quietly the darkness covered all.

And while no sunset flamed across the west,

And no great moon rose where the hills were low,

The day passed out as if it had not been:

And so it seemed the year sank to its rest,

Remembering naught, desiring naught,— as though

Early in Spring its young leaves were not green.