The sky is veiled in tears; each gray confine
Bespeaks the shrunken branch the leaves forsake.
"I laugh with ruddy Autumn in the morn;
I sound his praises in the golden light;
But when high noon has passed and raven night
Comes rushing down, I wail with those forlorn:
The dying leaves, the lone flowers, pale and torn,
The multitudes confronting death or flight."