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Home  »  The Book of Sorrow  »  David Gray (1838–1861)

Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916.

In the Shadows

David Gray (1838–1861)

OCTOBER’S gold is dim—the forests rot,

The weary rain falls ceaseless, while the day

Is wrapp’d in damp. In mire of village way

The hedge-row leaves are stamped; and, all forgot,

The broodless nest sits visible in the thorn.

Autumn, among her drooping marigolds,

Weeps all her garnered sheaves, and empty folds,

And dripping orchards—plundered and forlorn.

The season is a dead one, and I die!

No more, no more for me the Spring shall make

A resurrection in the earth, and take

The death from out her heart—O God, I die!

The cold throat-mist creeps nearer, till I breathe

Corruption. Drop, stark night, upon my death!