Wan mists enwrap the still-born day; br The harebell withers on the heath; br And all the moorland seems to breathe br The hectic beauty of decay. br Within the open grave of May br Dishevelled trees drop wreath on wreath; br Wind-wrung and ravelled underneath br Waste leaves choke up the woodland way. br br The grief of many partings near br Wails like an echo in the wind: br The days of love lie far behind, br The days of loss lie shuddering near. br Life's morning-glory who shall bind? br It is the evening of the year.