The pine-trees bend to listen to the autumn wind as it mutters <br />Something which sets the black poplars ashake with hysterical laughter; <br />While slowly the house of day is closing its eastern shutters. <br /> <br />Further down the valley the clustered tombstones recede, <br />Winding about their dimness the mist’s grey cerements, after <br />The street lamps in the darkness have suddenly started to bleed. <br /> <br />The leaves fly over the window and utter a word as they pass <br />To the face that leans from the darkness, intent, with two dark-filled eyes <br />That watch for ever earnestly from behind the window glass.<br /><br />David Herbert Lawrence<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/at-the-window-4/
