Besnaggled by dead trees.
The hills, like boney jaws whose flesh hath dropped,
Stand grinning at the deathy day.
The lily, too, hath cast her shroud
And clothed her as a brown-robed nun.
The moon doth, at the even’s creep,
Reach forth her whitened hands and sooth
The wrinkled brow of earth to sleep.
Ah, whither flown the fleecy summer clouds,
To bank, and fall to earth in billowed light,