Within his sober realm of leafless trees
The russet year inhaled the dreamy air;
Like some tanned reaper in his hour of ease,
When all the fields are lying brown and bare.
The gray barns looking from their lazy hills
O’er the dim waters widening in the vales,
Sent down the air a greeting to the mills,
On the dull thunder of...
’t Is midnight’s holy hour,—and silence now
Is brooding like a gentle spirit o’er
The still and pulseless world. Hark! on the winds
The bell’s deep tones are swelling,—’t is the knell
Of the departed year. No funeral train
Is sweeping past; yet, on the stream and wood,
With melancholy light, the moonbeams rest
Like a pale, spotless shroud...
Within the sober realm of leafless trees,
The russet year inhaled the dreamy air;
Like some tanned reaper, in his hour of ease,
When all the fields are lying brown and bare.
The gray barns looking from their hazy hills,
O’er the dun waters widening in the vales,
Sent down the air a greeting to the mills
On the dull thunder of...
