I. The Shivering Wind Sits In The Oaks, Whose Limbs, Twisted And Tortured, Nevermore Are Still; Grief And Decay Sit With It; They, Whose Chill Autumnal Touch Makes Hectic-Red The Rims Of All The Oak Leaves; Desolating, Dims The Ageratum'S Blue That Banks The Rill; And Splits The Milkweed'S Pod Upon The Hill, And Shakes It Free Of The Last Seed That Swims. Down Goes The Day Despondent To Its Close: And Now The Sunset'S Hands Of Copper Build A Tower Of Brass, Behind Whose Burning Bars The Day, In Fierce, Barbarian Repose, Like Some Imprisoned Inca Sits, Hate-Filled, Crowned With The Gold Corymbus Of The Stars. Ii. There Is A Booming In The Forest Boughs; Tremendous Feet Seem Trampling Through The Trees: The Storm Is At His Wildman Revelries, And Earth And Heaven Echo His Carouse. Night Reels With Tumult; And, From Out Her House Of Cloud, The Moon Looks, Like A Face One Sees In Nightmare, Hurrying, With Pale Eyes That Freeze Stooping Above With White, Malignant Brows. The Isolated Oak Upon The Hill, That Seemed, At Sunset, In Terrific Lands A Titan Head Black In A Sea Of Blood, Now Seems A Monster Harp, Whose Wild Strings Thrill To The Vast Fingering Of Innumerable Hands Spirits Of Tempest And Of Solitude.