Nature's many-stringed harp—

It comes

Silently, sinisterly,

Over the land, over the sea,

Spreading its beggar-raiment of brown.

Without stop, without sound,

Over the valley

Like a great serpent of silence

Coiling around the heart of sound.

A damp insidiousness

Creeps into the night;

A drab numbness sets in

Dripping in lugubrious drops

From the haggard fingers

Of the autumn trees.

It strangles the last sound,

It devours the last light,

Trembles in fear

To see its own visage;

It moves on, on, and around,

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