The Lily'S Withered Chalice Falls Around Its Rod Of Dusty Gold, And From The Beech-Trees On The Wold The Last Wood-Pigeon Coos And Calls. The Gaudy Leonine Sunflower Hangs Black And Barren On Its Stalk, And Down The Windy Garden Walk The Dead Leaves Scatter, Hour By Hour. Pale Privet-Petals White As Milk Are Blown Into A Snowy Mass: The Roses Lie Upon The Grass Like Little Shreds Of Crimson Silk.