A SINGLE branch of flaming red, A branch of tawny yellow And every branch in gorgeousness A rival of its fellow; Some russet brown and faded green With golden shadows in between And mist-hid sun to mellow. An instinct as of music near— A breath the wind is bringing, Broken and sweet, as from a host Of swift and solemn winging— A mystery born of light and sound Wrapping our tranced progress round— A sighing and a singing! Thus in a certain lovely pomp We leave the Summer lying— These are her funeral banners, this The pageantry of dying! The music that we almost hear Is wafted from her passing bier— The singing and the sighing! |