The leaves fall yellow from their sapless sprays;
Earth gapes in chinks; th’ exhausted fountain plays
No more its music; shrunk the stream and lakes;
The barren cloud, in air expanded, takes
Semblance of sheeted fire, and parts in scarlet flakes.
Not a bird’s fluttering, not an insect’s hum,
Breaks the still void; or, on its sultry gloom
If winds intrude, ’tis only such as come
From the hot sands, sirocco or simoom,
Which, blown in stifling gusts, the springs of life consume.”