With dismal shadows o’er her sweet face blown,
Tended to death by eve’s delicious star,
Lies the lost day alone.
Where late with red mists bound about his brows
Went the swart Autumn, wading to the knees
Through drifts of dead leaves shaken from the boughs
Of the old forest trees;
The gusts upon their baleful errands run
O’er the bright ruin, fading from our eyes,
And over all, like clouds about the sun,