All Hushed Of Glee, The Last Chill Bee Clings Wearily To The Dying Aster. The Leaves Drop Faster: And All Around, Red As Disaster, The Forest Crimsons With Tree On Tree. A Butterfly, The Last To Die, Wings Heavily By, Weighed Down With Torpor. The Air Grows Sharper; And The Wind In The Trees, Like Some Sad Harper, Sits And Sorrows With Sigh On Sigh. The Far Crows Call; The Acorns Fall; And Over All The Autumn Raises Dun Mists And Hazes, Through Which Her Soul, It Seemeth, Gazes On Ghosts And Dreams In Carnival. The End Is Near; The Dying Year Leans Low To Hear Her Own Heart Breaking, And Beauty Taking Her Flight, And All My Dreams Forsaking My Soul, Bowed Down 'Mid The Sad And Sere.