Autumn Sorrow, by Madison Cawein

  Ah me! too soon the autumn comes
  Among these purple-plaintive hills!
  Too soon among the forest gums
  Premonitory flame she spills,
  Bleak, melancholy flame that kills.

  Her white fogs veil the morn, that rims
  With wet the moonflower's elfin moons;
  And, like exhausted starlight, dims
  The last slim lily-disk; and swoons
  With scents of hazy afternoons.

  Her gray mists haunt the sunset skies,
  And build the west's cadaverous fires,
  Where Sorrow sits with lonely eyes,
  And hands that wake an ancient lyre,
  Beside the ghost of dead Desire.