I.

II.

The air is damp, and hush’d, and close,
As a sick man’s room when he taketh repose
        An hour before death;
My very heart faints and my whole soul grieves
At the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves,
        And the breath
        Of the fading edges of box beneath,
And the year’s last rose.
     Heavily hangs the broad sunflower
        Over its grave i’ the earth so chilly;
     Heavily hangs the hollyhock,
        Heavily hangs the tiger-lily.