Gone is the glory from the hills, <br />The autumn sunshine from the mere, <br />Which mourns for the declining year <br />In all her tributary rills. <br /> <br />A sense of change obscurely chills <br />The misty twilight atmosphere, <br />In which familiar things appear <br />Like alien ghosts, foreboding ills. <br /> <br />The twilight hour a month ago <br />Was full of pleasant warmth and ease, <br />The pearl of all the twenty-four. <br />Erelong the winter gales shall blow, <br />Erelong the winter frosts shall freeze - <br />And oh, that it were June once more!<br /><br />Robert Fuller Murray<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ichabod-2/
