No breath of wind stirs in the painted leaves, <br />The meadows are as stirless as the sky, <br />Like a Saint's halo golden vapours lie <br />Above the restful valley's garnered sheaves. <br />The journeying Sun, like one who fondly grieves, <br />Above the hills seems loitering with a sigh, <br />As loth to bid the fruitful earth good-bye, <br />On these hushed hours of luminous autumn eves. <br /> <br />There is a pathos in his softening glow, <br />Which like a benediction seems to hover <br />O'er the tranced earth, ere he must sink below <br />And leave her widowed of her radiant Lover, <br />A frost-bound sleeper in a shroud of snow, <br />While winter winds howl a wild dirge above her.<br /><br />Mathilde Blind<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-passing-year/