The Passing Glory

Slow sinks the sun,--a great carbuncle ball
  Red in the cavern of a sombre cloud,--
  And in her garden, where the dense weeds crowd.
  Among her dying asters stands the Fall,
  Like some lone woman in a ruined hall,
  Dreaming of desolation and the shroud;
  Or through decaying woodlands goes, down-bowed,
  Hugging the tatters of her gipsy shawl.
  The gaunt wind rises, like an angry hand,
  And sweeps the sprawling spider from its web,
  Smites frantic music in the twilight's ear;
  And all around, like melancholy sand,
  Rains dead leaves down--wild leaves, that mark the ebb,
  In Earth's dark hour-glass, of another year.