Chapter LXVI

What alchemy does Earth conceal
Desired by the desperate days?
With feet of fog and hands of haze
They search the crumbling woods and steal
With mutterings,--gaunt as hags who deal
In witchcraft,--where each dark tree sways,
And, venerable, with staff aslant,
Death sits like some old mendicant.

Around me all’s despondency,
And grief that holds the unwilling world:
The last gold leaf is wildly hurled
Through sobbing silence over me:
The brook has hushed its wildwood glee,
Sick of itself; and far unfurled,
And melancholy as my soul,
The struggling lights of sunset roll.