Where fade the tracks of all who went before:
A dim and solitary traveller
On ways that end in evening and the waste.
THE LAST DAYS
The russet leaves of the sycamore
Lie at last on the valley floor—
By the autumn wind swept to and fro
Like ghosts in a tale of long ago.
Shallow and clear the Carmel glides
Where the willows droop on its vine-walled sides.