Sad-Hearted Spirit Of The Solitudes, Who Comest Through The Ruin-Wedded Woods! Gray-Gowned With Fog, Gold-Girdled With The Gloom Of Tawny Twilights; Burdened With Perfume Of Rain-Wet Uplands, Chilly With The Mist; And All The Beauty Of The Fire-Kissed Cold Forests Crimsoning Thy Indolent Way, Odorous Of Death And Drowsy With Decay. I Think Of Thee As Seated 'Mid The Showers Of Languid Leaves That Cover Up The Flowers, - The Little Flower-Sisterhoods, Whom June Once Gave Wild Sweetness To, As To A Tune A Singer Gives Her Soul'S Wild Melody, - Watching The Squirrel Store His Granary. Or, 'Mid Old Orchards I Have Pictured Thee: Thy Hair'S Profusion Blown About Thy Back; One Lovely Shoulder Bathed With Gipsy Black; Upon Thy Palm One Nestling Cheek, And Sweet The Rosy Russets Tumbled At Thy Feet. Was It A Voice Lamenting For The Flowers? A Heart-Sick Bird, That Sang Of Happier Hours? A Cricket Dirging Days That Soon Must Die? Or Did The Ghost Of Summer Wander By?