The sad light sayeth how all Autumn grieves,
And how this rainy mist in heaven high
Doth wake the sorrowings that deepest lie.
Behold the silent forms shorn of their leaves,
The elm, the maple, and the antique oak—
With gestures sorrowful they pray the sky.
Behold the rain-pools where the brown leaves soak,
And the same mournful branches mirrored lie.
See how the sensuous mist, cool-smelling, slips
Like a wilful garment down from those wet limbs
Which will be gracious to the singing lips
Of the expected wind!—For he will come!
I hear him waken as the twilight dims,
And my heart quickens, and my words are dumb!