Sad O'Er The Hills The Poppy Sunset Died. Slow As A Fungus Breaking Through The Crusts Of Forest Leaves, The Waning Half-Moon Thrusts, Through Gray-Brown Clouds, One Milky Silver Side; In Her Vague Light The Dogwoods, Vale-Descried, Seem Nervous Torches Flourished By The Gusts; The Apple-Orchards Seem The Restless Dusts Of Wind-Thinned Mists Upon The Hills They Hide. It Is A Night Of Omens Whom Late May Meets, Like A Wraith, Among Her Train Of Hours; An Apparition, With Appealing Eye And Hesitant Foot, That Walks A Willowed Way, And, Speaking Through The Fading Moon And Flowers, Bids Her Prepare Her Gentle Soul To Die.