At the Window
The pine trees bend to listen to the autumn wind as it mutters
Something which sets the black poplars ashake with hysterical laughter;
While slowly the house of day is closing its eastern shutters.
Further down the valley the clustered tombstones recede
Winding about their dimness the mists’ grey cerements, after
The street-lamps in the twilight have suddenly started to bleed.
The leaves fly over the window and whisper a word as they pass
To the face that leans from the darkness, intent, with two eyes of darkness
That watch forever earnestly from behind the window glass.