Posted by: W. E. Poplaski | October 15, 2009


by Edgar Lee Masters (1868 – 1950)

In Autumn (1898)

The day is dead, the moon is high
A globe of fire in air.
The owlets whoop, the crickets cry
In meadows brown and bare.
And heavy mists obscure the sky,
Like thoughts of brooding care.
The dead leaves rustle where we tread,
The winds are whistling low.
And all we loved too soon has fled
Ere winter winds shall blow;
And on yon tree to mock the dead
Sits perched the sable crow


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