Juliet C. Marsh

WITHIN the shadow of ourselves we stand,

And see a thousand brilliancies unfold

Where autumn woods, in gorgeous rain, hold

One late, last revel. Upon every hand

Riot of color, death in pomp and state,

Decay magnificent, inconstant blaze,—

We have no part or splendor in these days.

They shall be changed,—we are inviolate;

Their voices shall be hushed on every hill,

Their lights be quenched—all color fade and die,

And when they stand like spectres gaunt and still,

With naked boughs against the far, cold sky,

Lo! we shall hide the flying moon from sight,

And lead the wind on many a roaring night.