O lonely star moving in still abodes
Where fear and strife lie indolently furled,
You cannot hear the rushing autumn hurled
Against these wanderers bent with futile loads.
Our broken dreams like withered leaves are swirled
Where wind-dashed lanterns fail upon the roads,
And all our tragic gestured episodes
End in forgotten graveyards of the world.

But in those twilights where you spread your fires,
Tempest and clarion are heard no more;
Autumn no sorrow, spring no hope inspires,
Nor can the distant closing of a door
Affright the soul to dark imagining
Beneath deflowered boughs where no birds sing.

Pomfret