COME, on thy swaying feet, Wild Spirit of the Fall! With wind-blown skirts, loose hair of russet-brown. Crowned with bright berries of the bittersweet. Trip a light measure with the hurrying leaf, Straining thy few late roses to thy breast, With laughter over-gay, sweet eyes drooped down, That none may guess thy grief. Dare not to pause for rest Lest the slow tears should gather to their fall. But when the cold moon rises o'er the hill, The last numb crickets cease, and all is still, Face down thou liest on the frosty ground Strewed with thy fortune's wreck, alas, thine all -- There, on a winter dawn, thy corse I found, Lone Spirit of the Fall. |