The funeral pile of my Indian summer is burning out in drops of gold and circles of smoke. Mutely and piously I bury now with my own hand the last star of coal beneath the ashes .
And night and villages. On moon-wrought flutes the grasshoppers play gloom into my soul. Upon white grass, at bluish fences — the pumpkins, yellow as the moon .
And trees — blue wax — in cool rays of void, like straight candles, reverential before God. And silence sharply marks the falling of the faded leaf, and sharper yet the unrest of my step .