The Last Morning in the Country

Dawn slips within my room to say good-by: 
Buffeted, bruised, by autumn rain 
All night, 
While I lay sleeping, held to dreams, again 
She comes from out the violated sky, 
Dragging her tarnished light.

With dim leaves drooping, hanging all about 
Her misty face, her eyes still wet, 
She stands 
Disconsolate beneath her veils—and yet 
Bravely she spills one last bird’s note from out 
Her summer-empty hands.