Wan mists enwrap the still-born day; <br />The harebell withers on the heath; <br />And all the moorland seems to breathe <br />The hectic beauty of decay. <br />Within the open grave of May <br />Dishevelled trees drop wreath on wreath; <br />Wind-wrung and ravelled underneath <br />Waste leaves choke up the woodland way. <br /> <br />The grief of many partings near <br />Wails like an echo in the wind: <br />The days of love lie far behind, <br />The days of loss lie shuddering near. <br />Life's morning-glory who shall bind? <br />It is the evening of the year.<br /><br />Mathilde Blind<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-evening-of-the-year/
