There's a flight of green and red
In the hurry of hills and rails,
Through the shadowy twilight shed
By the lamps as daylight pales.
Dim gold light flushes to blood
In humble hollows far down;
Birds sing low from a wood
Of barren trees without crown.
Scarcely more to be felt
Than that autumn is gone;
Languors, lulled in me, melt
In the still air's monotone.