While lounging in a chair, I looked up at the ceiling
 Where, teasing my imagination,
A circle hangs above the quiet lamp,
 And spins just like a ghostly shadow.

Within the flicker there's a trace of autumn sunset:
 As if, above the rooftop and the garden,
Unable to fly off, afraid to land,
 Dark flocks of blackbirds circle. . .
 
No, it's not wings I hear, but hooves at the front gate!
 I hear the trembling hands . . .
How chill the pallor of a lovely face!
 How bitter parting's whisper! . .
 
Lost and in silence, I survey the distant road
 Beyond the dimming garden,-
While the impatient flock of blackbirds,
 Unsheltered, circles still.