Winter Rain

Wild clouds roll up, slag-dark and slaty gray, And in the oaks the sere wind sobs and sighs, Weird as a word a man before he dies Mutters beneath his breath yet fears to say: The rain drives down; and by each forest way Each dead leaf drips, and murmurings arise As of fantastic footsteps, one who flies, Whispering, the dim eidolon of the day. Now is the wood a place where phantoms house: Around each tree wan ghosts of flowers crowd, And spectres of sweet weeds that once were fair, Rustling; and through the bleakness of bare boughs A voice is heard, now low, now stormy loud, As if the ghosts of all the leaves were there.