With visions many-hued;
There comes a solemn tone,
Like what is felt, in passing down the while
Some old cathedral's venerable aisle,—
A feeling all its own!
But now, at close of day,
When the damp vapoury veil of eve is gone,
Of gathering winds, the mournful dirge-like moan,
Sounds wildly far away.
For winter casts its shade