Halloween

All hushed of glee, The last chill bee Clings wearily To the dying aster. The leaves dropp faster: And all around, red as disaster, The forest crimsons with tree on tree. A butterfly, The last to die, Wings heavily by, Weighed down with torpor. The air grows sharper; And the wind in the trees, like some sad harper, Sits and sorrows with sigh on sigh. The far crows call; The acorns fall; And over all The Autumn raises Dun mists and hazes, Through which her soul, it seemeth, gazes On ghosts and dreams in carnival. The end is near; The dying Year Leans low to hear Her own heart breaking, And Beauty taking Her flight, and all my dreams forsaking My soul, bowed down 'mid the sad and sere.