A spirit haunts the year's last hours
Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers. 
To himself he talks. 
For at eventide, listening earnestly,
At his work you may hear him sob and sigh
In the walks;
Earthward he bowseth the heavy stalks
Of the moldering flowers. 

	Heavily hangs the broad sunflower
	Over its grave i' the earth so chilly;
	Heavily hangs the hollyhock,
	Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. 

The air is damp, and hush'd, and close
As a sick man's room when he taketh repose
An hour before death;
My very heart faints and my whole soul grieves
Ath the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves,
And the breath
Of the fading edges of box beneath,
And the year's last rose. 

	Heavily hangs the broad sunflower
	Over its grave i' the earth so chilly;
	Heavily hangs the hollyhock,
	Heavily hangs the tiger-lily.