A SINGLE branch of flaming red,
A branch of tawny yellow
And every branch in gorgeousness
A rival of its fellow;
Some russet brown and faded green
With golden shadows in between
And mist-hid sun to mellow.

An instinct as of music near--
A breath the wind is bringing,
Broken and sweet, as from a host
Of swift and solemn winging--
A mystery born of light and sound
Wrapping our tranced progress round--
A sighing and a singing!

Thus in a certain lovely pomp
We leave the Summer lying--
These are her funeral banners, this
The pageantry of dying!
The music that we almost hear
Is wafted from her passing bier--
The singing and the sighing!