II.
The air is damp, and hushed, and close,
As a rich man’s room, where he taketh repose
An hour before death;
My very heart faints, and my whole soul grieves
At the moist, rich smell of the rotting leaves,
And the breath
Of the fading edges of box beneath, and the year’s last rose.
Heavily hangs the broad sun-flower
Over its grave, the earth so chilly;