The scent of pine is heavy in the air,
And wrens dart to and fro from bough to bough;
What eerie fancies through the psyche flow?
Old forest spirits, hidden, linger there
In dying Summer; when the trees appear
To know of Winter’s doom, yet hunger still
For Autumn’s gilded kisses, for she will
Kiss them to sleep, and drench them with her tears.
Sunset in Warburton