THAT Artist of the Universe
Behind the wind and rain
Hath drawn a dream of splendid death
Across my window pane.

And in the lonely, haunted day,
My luminous maple tree
Hath now assumed the magic pomp
Of some weird pageantry.

And 'mid the common day and thought,
My casement to me brings
A picture rarer than all art
Of man's imaginings.

Not all the wondrous hues of Watts,
Not Turner's wizard scheme,
With all its mastery, haunts my heart
Like this autumnal dream;

For o'er my sill, all life, all death,
All moods life, death can name,
Press on me from that magic frieze
Of earth's funereal flame.