The Hillside Smokes With Trailing Mist Around The Rosy Oaks; While Sunset Builds A Gorgeous Asia In The West She Gilds. Auroral Streaks Sword Through The Heavens' Himalayan Peaks: In Which, Behold, Burn Mines Of Indian Ruby And Of Gold. A Moment And A Shadow Stalks Between It And The Land. A Mist, A Breath, A Premonition, With The Face Of Death, Turning To Frost The Air It Breathes, Like Some Invisible Ghost. Then, Wild Of Hair, Demons Seem Streaming To Their Fiery Lair: A Chasm, The Same That Splits The Clouds' Face With A Leer Of Flame. The Wind Comes Up And Fills The Hollow Land As Wine A Cup. Around And Round It Skips The Dead Leaves O'Er The Forest'S Ground. A Myriad Fays And Imps Seem Dancing Down The Withered Ways. And Far And Near It Makes Of Every Bush A Whisperer; Telling Dark Tales Of Things That Happened In The Ghostly Vales: Of Things The Fox Barks At And Sees Among The Haunted Rocks: At Which The Owl Hoots, And The Wolf-Hound Cringes With A Growl. Now On The Road It Walks Like Feet Too Weary For Their Load. Shuffling The Leaves, With Stormy Sighs, Onward It Plods And Heaves; Till In The Hills Among The Red Death There Itself It Kills. And With Its Death Earth, So Its Seems, Draws In A Mighty Breath. And, Like A Clown Who Wanders Lost Upon A Haunted Down, Turns Towards The East, Fearful Of Coming Goblin Or Of Beast, And Sees A Light, The Jack-O'-Lantern Moon, Glow Into Sight..