David Gray (1838-1861)
In the Shadows
October's gold is dim--the forests rot,
The weary rain falls ceaseless, while the day
Is wrapp'd in damp. In mire of village way
The hedge-row leaves are stamped; and, all forgot,
The broodless nest sits visible in the thorn.
Autumn, among her drooping marigolds,
Weeps all her garnered sheaves, and empty folds,
And dripping orchards--plundered and forlorn.
The season is a dead one, and I die!
No more, no more for me the Spring shall make
A resurrection in the earth, and take
The death from out her heart--O God, I die!
The cold throat-mist creeps nearer, till I breathe
Corruption. Drop, stark night, upon my death!
The Book of Sorrow