The lower'd skies are grey; the trees are bare.
A week ago they gleam'd in splendid rows
Of gold and crimson; now in gaunt despair
They stand like ghosts above new-fallen snows.

The world seems even greyer than the skies.
'Twas yesterday the homeward-honking geese
Fled as from death. They know too well what lies
Behind this sinister, foreboding peace!