RUINATION

THE sun is bleeding its fires upon the mist

That huddles in grey heaps coiling and holding back.

Like cliffs abutting in shadow a drear grey sea

Some street-ends thrust forward their stack.

On the misty waste-lands, away from the flushing grey

Of the morning the elms are loftily dimmed, and tall

As if moving in air towards us, tall angels

Of darkness advancing steadily over us all.