The Passing Glory

Slow sinks the sun,--a great carbuncle ball
Red in the cavern of a sombre cloud,--
And in her garden, where the dense weeds crowd,
Among her dying asters stands the Fall,
Like some lone woman in a ruined hall,
Dreaming of desolation and the shroud;
Or through decaying woodlands goes, down-bowed,
Hugging the tatters of her gipsy shawl.
The gaunt wind rises, like an angry hand,
And sweeps the sprawling spider from its web,
Smites frantic music in the twilight’s ear;
And all around, like melancholy sand,
Rains dead leaves down--wild leaves, that mark the ebb,
In Earth’s dark hour-glass, of another year.