Over the night's low clouds, the flare 

 Of burning marsh throws a ruddy glare. 

 Blue mists cling to the distant hill ; 

 The flowers are gone, and the woods are still 

 Where dry grass bends neath the fox's tread 

 The weird witch-hazel's bower is spread. 

 Across the sunset sky, the crows 

 Cawing fly, in wavering rows: 



Slowly and sadly the daylight dies 

 The wind is bleak, it sobs and cries I 



