The pine-trees bend to listen to the autumn wind as it mutters
Something which sets the black poplars ashake with hysterical laughter;
As slowly the house of day is closing its eastern shutters.
Farther down the valley the clustered tombstones recede,
Winding about their dimness the mist’s grey cerements, after
The street-lamps in the twilight have suddenly started to bleed.
The leaves fly over the window, and utter a word as they pass
To the face that gazes outwards, watching for night to waft a
Meaning or a message over the window glass.