Between the sunset and the window shade,
The maple leaves were quaking in the wind.
I saw the shaken shadows that they made
As if in fear — as if they were afraid
That soon a palling dark was coming on,
And that their shadows, trembling and unpinned,
Cast on translucency, would, in one black,
Fade fast and disappear. Then they were gone
In fact, and, I could see, would not be back,
No matter what the wind did, come the dawn.