When reeds are dead and straw to thatch the marshes, br And feathered pampas-grass rides into the wind br Like Agèd warriors westward, tragic, thinned br Of half their tribe; an over the flattened rushes, br Stripped of its secret, open, stark and bleak, br Blackens afar the half-forgotten creek, - br Then leans on me the weight of the year, and crushes br My heart.