Dreams in the dusk,Only dreams closing the dayAnd with the day's close going backTo the gray things, the dark things.The far, deep things of dreamland.Dreams, only dreams in the dusk,Only the old remembered picturesOf lost days when the day's lossWrote in tears the heart's loss.Tears and loss and broken dreamsMay find your heart at dusk.
The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing,The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying,And the YearOn the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead,Is lying.Come, Months, come away,From November to May,In your saddest array;Follow the bierOf the dead cold Year,And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre.The chill rain is falling, the nipped worm is crawling,The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knellingFor the Year;The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each goneTo his dwelling;
God, that I might seeFramilode once again!Redmarley, all renewed,Clear shining after rain.And Cranham, Cranham trees,And blaze of Autumn hues.Portway under the moon,Silvered with freezing dews.May Hill that Gloster dwellers’Gainst every sunset see;And the wide Severn riverHoming again to the sea.The star of afterglow,Venus, on western hills;Dymock in spring: O springOf home! O daffodils!