THE tale of wake is told; the stage is bare,
The curtain falls upon the ended play;
November's fogs arise, to hide away
The withered wrack of that which was so fair:
Summer is gone to be with things that were.
The sun is fallen from his ancient sway;
The night primaeval trenches on the day:
Without, the Winter waits upon the stair.
Stern herald of the wintry wrath to come,
The mist-month treads upon October's feet,
Muting the small birds' songs, the insects' hum,
And all involving in its winding-sheet,
'Graves on the frontal of the failing year,
'All hope abandon, ye who enter here!'