Something stirs in thicket dark
where tangled reaching limbs of trees are stark
against sinking sunlight bleeding red
and hasten thee quickly off to bed.
There lays a dove with eyes that weep
and voice that sings it's mourning air
of loves and sunlight fading fair
of winter's coming cold in evening fright
and all once green turned deathly white:
"Oh these passing days of little sleep
of autumn's chills from my resting keep
unceasing tension building still
between firey limbs and the snowy hill
and my heart with ice shall surely fill."