Wild Clouds Roll Up, Slag-Dark And Slaty Gray, And In The Oaks The Sere Wind Sobs And Sighs, Weird As A Word A Man Before He Dies Mutters Beneath His Breath Yet Fears To Say: The Rain Drives Down; And By Each Forest Way Each Dead Leaf Drips, And Murmurings Arise As Of Fantastic Footsteps, One Who Flies, Whispering, The Dim Eidolon Of The Day. Now Is The Wood A Place Where Phantoms House: Around Each Tree Wan Ghosts Of Flowers Crowd, And Spectres Of Sweet Weeds That Once Were Fair, Rustling; And Through The Bleakness Of Bare Boughs A Voice Is Heard, Now Low, Now Stormy Loud, As If The Ghosts Of All The Leaves Were There.