I wreck upon the tossing coast of night,
When everything of loveliness light made
Dissolves into the cold, swift autumn rain,
That sweeps interminably o'er the plain,
And leaves the dying world in piteous blight.
The reaper Winter cometh on apace,
And gleaneth all the wealth of golden-rod,
And parsley wild of timid peaceful face,—
Cutting the summer from the close shorn sod.
The miser-wind plucks now the last pale leaf