I.

A spirit haunts the year’s last hours, Dwelling amidst these yellowing bowers: To himself he talks; For at eventide, listening earnestly, At his work you may hear him sob and sigh, In the walks; Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks of the moldering flowers; Heavily hangs the broad sun-flower O’er its grave, the earth so chilly; Heavily hangs the hollyhock, Heavily hangs the tiger-lily.