A Dead Harvest
IN KENSINGTON GARDENS. Along the graceless grass of town They rake the rows of red and brown,— Dead leaves, unlike the rows of hay Delicate, touched with gold and grey, Raked long ago and far away. A narrow silence in the park, Between the lights a narrow dark, One street rolls on the north; and one, Muffled, upon the south doth run; Amid the mist the work is done. A futile crop!—for it the fire Smoulders, and, for a stack, a pyre. So go the town's lives on the breeze, Even as the sheddings of the trees; Bosom nor barn is filled with these.
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