The Melancholy Year Is Dead with Rain

The melancholy year is dead with rain. Drop after drop on every branch pursues. From far away beyond the drizzled flues A twilight saddens to the window pane. And dimly thro' the chambers of the brain, From place to place and gently touching, moves My one and irrecoverable love's Dear and lost shape one other time again. So in the last of autumn for a day Summer or summer's memory returns. So in a mountain desolation burns Some rich belated flower, and with the gray Sick weather, in the world of rotting ferns From out the dreadful stones it dies away.