The lily's withered chalice falls
Around its rod of dusty gold
And from the beech-trees on the wold
The last wood-pigeon coos and calls

The gaudy leonine sunflower
Hangs black and barren on its stalk
And down the windy garden walk
The dead leaves scatter, -- hour by hour

Pale privet-petals white as milk
Are blown into a snowy mass:
The roses lie upon the grass
Like little shreds of crimson silk