Stealthily, the autumn wind
Roams the porch and tries the door,
Doubly latched, iron pinned,
Bolted—not as heretofore.
Now with dry ash leaves confers
That picklock, in a sibilant
Parley, couched in brittle whispers,—
Conspiracy too evident.
Bough-shadows on the pallid blind
Signal fiercely, and subside
To stillness, ominously bland,—
Espials coded, conned, and cried.
The night grows colder, and the year
Shallows, deepens, ages, stills;
The fête of All the Hallows near,
The strange wind walks the hills.