It flits like wind:

the many plated fall

that haunts the hollow echoes

 of the trees.

It sits in gloom,

the ever-darkened hall

of piney bowers

bending in the breeze.

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And far away,

approaching on the air,

the mountain smoke-streams:

 hard, and sharp as spite.

Severest winter—

soon to come and tear

aside the warmful

day and bring us night.

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