Mathilde Blind

The Passing Year

No breath of wind stirs in the painted leaves,
  The meadows are as stirless as the sky,
  Like a Saint's halo golden vapours lie
Above the restful valley's garnered sheaves.
The journeying Sun, like one who fondly grieves,
  Above the hills seems loitering with a sigh,
  As loth to bid the fruitful earth good-bye,
On these hushed hours of luminous autumn eves.

There is a pathos in his softening glow,
  Which like a benediction seems to hover
O'er the tranced earth, ere he must sink below
  And leave her widowed of her radiant Lover,
A frost-bound sleeper in a shroud of snow
  While winter winds howl a wild dirge above her.