The Spirit of the Fall
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 bitter-sweet.
Trip a light measure with the hurrying leaf,
Straining thy few late roses to thy breast:
With laughter overgay, 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
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