Chapter VIII

The spirits are pulling the sere dry leaves,
Of the shadowy forest, down;
And howl the gaunt reapers that gather the sheaves,
With the moon, o’er their revels, to frown:
To-morrow ye’ll find all their spoils in your path,
And ye’ll speak of the wind and the sky;
But oh could ye see them to-night, in their wrath,
I ween ye’d be frenzied of eye!