The trees have shed their leaves at last,
Like something over — done and said.
How shall their settled piles be read
Now that fall is dead and past?
Perhaps like sibyl’s words that wait
On wind to spell out some despair,
When all their writing blots the air
And hints that hope may be too late?
Above, do quires, runed though bare,
Image the warning of a dream
Where we fall too, until they seem
To say, “Prepare. Prepare. Prepare”?