Falls dead upon a vacant ear.

Beyond the tumult of the mills,

And all the city's sound and strife,

Beyond the waste, beyond the hills,

I look far out and dream of life.

SEPTEMBER

Now hath the summer reached her golden close,

And, lost amid her corn-fields, bright of soul,

Scarcely perceives from her divine repose

How near, how swift, the inevitable goal:

Still, still, she smiles, though from her careless feet

The bounty and the fruitful strength are gone,

And through the soft long wondering days goes on

The silent sere decadence sad and sweet.

[36]

The kingbird and the pensive thrush are fled,

Children of light, too fearful of the gloom;

The sun falls low, the secret word is said,

The mouldering woods grow silent as the tomb;

Even the fields have lost their sovereign grace,

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