The melancholy year is dead with rain. 
Drop after drop on every branch pursues. 
From far away beyond the drizzled flues 
A twilight saddens to the window pane. 
And dimly thro' the chambers of the brain, 
From place to place and gently touching, moves 
My one and irrecoverable love's 
Dear and lost shape one other time again. 
So in the last of autumn for a day 
Summer or summer's memory returns. 
So in a mountain desolation burns 
Some rich belated flower, and with the gray 
Sick weather, in the world of rotting ferns 
From out the dreadful stones it dies away.