Poems of Madison Cawein Vol. 3 — The Passing Glory

THE PASSING GLORY

Slow sinks the sun,--a great carbuncle ball Red in the cavern of a sombre cloud,-- And in her garden, where the dense weeds crowd, Among her dying asters stands the Fall, Like some lone woman in a ruined hall, Dreaming of desolation and the shroud;

Or through decaying woodlands goes, down-bowed, Hugging the tatters of her gipsy shawl.

The gaunt wind rises, like an angry hand, And sweeps the sprawling spider from its web, Smites frantic music in the twilight’s ear;

And all around, like melancholy sand, Rains dead leaves down--wild leaves, that mark the ebb, In Earth’s dark hour-glass, of another year.