And warned the reaper of the rosy east—
All now was songless, empty and forlorn.
Alone from out the stubble piped the quail,
While croaked the crow through all the dreamy gloom;
Alone the pheasant drumming in the vale
Made echo to the distant cottage loom.
There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers,
The spiders wove their thin shrouds night by night,
The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers,
Sailed slowly by—passed noiseless out of sight.