Melancholy

The blue soul has mutely closed, In the open window the brown forest sinks, The stillness of dark animals; in the valley The mill grinds, by the footbridge clouds rest outpoured, The golden strangers. A procession of steeds Gallops red in the village. The garden brown and cold. The aster freezes, so delicately painted on the fence The sunflower's gold almost flown away. The stumpets' voices; dew is poured out On the hard grass and stars white and cold. See death painted in the dear shadow, Every countenance full of tears and closed.