I marked the slow withdrawal of the year. Out on the hills the scarlet maples shone-- The glad, first herald of triumphant dawn. A robin's song fell through the silence--clear As long ago it rang when June was here. Then, suddenly, a few grey clouds were drawn Across the sky; and all the song was gone, And all the gold was quick to disappear. That day the sun seemed loth to come again; And all day long the low wind spoke of rain, Far off, beyond the hills; and moaned, like one Wounded, among the pines: as though the Earth, Knowing some giant grief had come to birth, Had wearied of the Summer and the Sun.