With silent fever of the sickened wood.
I love to hear in all thy wind-swept coignes,
Rain-wet and choked with bleached and ruined weeds,
The withered whisper of the many leaves,
That, fallen on barren ways—like fallen hopes—
Once held so high upon the Summer's heart
Of stalwart trees, now seem the desolate voice
Of Earth lamenting in hushed undertones
Her green departed glory vanished so.