The tall, gaunt forms of shivering trees
Have groaned and rattled their bony arms,
Till, startled by the restless breeze,
The withered sprites of summer leaves
Have gathered to whisper their vague alarms,
Now whirling aloft to the dripping eaves,
Now wavering slow to earth again,
Borne down by the pitiless, hopeless rain.
Upon my hearth the ruddy light
Dances and plays at the fire-dogs’ feet