Chapter XIX

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 hedgerow leaves are stamp’d, 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!