On The Hilltop

There is no inspiration in the view. From where this acorn drops its thimbles brown The landscape stretches like a shaggy frown; The wrinkled hills hang haggard and harsh of hue: Above them hollows the heaven's stony blue, Like a dull thought that haunts some sleepdazed clown Plodding his homeward way; and, whispering down, The dead leaves dance, a sere and shelterless crew. Let the sick day stagger unto its close, Morose and mumbling, like a hoary crone Beneath her fagots huddled fogs that soon Shall flare the windy west with ashen glows, Like some deep, dying hearth; and let the lone Night come at last night, and its withered moon.