Beneath whose folds the trees grow pale,
And as its darkening shred-skeins crown
The yellow fields, they turn to brown,
While now a black brook bubbles down,
Star-touched, across the fading trail.
It is the hour when spirits steal
Along the path, and I can feel
The strange close-shouldering of those
Who dwell among the dim hedgerows,
Whispering things nobody knows,