ALONG the graceless grass of town They rake the rows of red and brown, -- Dead leaves, unlike the rows of hay Delicate, touched with gold and grey, Raked long ago and far away. A narrow silence in the park, Between the lights a narrow dark, One street rolls on the north; and one, Muffled, upon the south doth run; Amid the mist the work is done. A futile crop! -- for it the fire Smoulders, and, for a stack, a pyre. So go the town's lives on the breeze, Even as the sheddings of the trees; Bosom nor barn is filled with these. |