No sound is heard but the flowing rills,[277]
The summer’s voices are hushed[278] and gone.[279]
A late, sad crow[280] on a bare beech top
Caws and swings in an autumn wind;
The dead leaves fall, and the acorn’s drop[281]
Breaks the stillness and scares the hind.
Wrapped in her blanket Nekama stands,
Scans[282] the horizon with eager eye.
Late she lingers. She clasps[283] her hands,
And a sadness dims her wide dark eye.