Omens

Sad o'er the hills the poppy sunset died.
  Slow as a fungus breaking through the crusts
  Of forest leaves, the waning half-moon thrusts,
  Through gray-brown clouds, one milky silver side;
  In her vague light the dogwoods, vale-descried,
  Seem nervous torches flourished by the gusts;
  The apple-orchards seem the restless dusts
  Of wind-thinned mists upon the hills they hide.
  It is a night of omens whom late May
  Meets, like a wraith, among her train of hours;
  An apparition, with appealing eye
  And hesitant foot, that walks a willowed way,
  And, speaking through the fading moon and
  flowers,
  Bids her prepare her gentle soul to die.