The Autumn wind is rising, and the trees
Faint shimmer with an ectoplasmic motion;
The sound inside the compound is of seas,
Of waves that spring forth from an angry ocean
To crash, with thund’rous tumult on the shore;
The wind dies, and the ocean is no more.
Newspaper fragments borne upon the gale
Glide like a sea gull o’er the ocean spray,
Its call cries out to me: “Come now and sail
Upon the hungry tide, and sail away!”
The gale drops, and the paper on the green
Is windswept rubbish, ne’er a gull is seen.
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