The Indolent Mist of Autumn

The indolent mist of autumn at last dispersed . . .
It hovers between the towers, like the incense full of dreams,
Which will linger in the naves after the most solemn Mass;
And it sleeps like cloth spread on the dejected, grey ramparts.

It comes unfolded, then folds back on itself, like a wing,
In imperceptible motion, yet incessant, in the fog;
All is shaded to a blur and turns slightly divine,
As beneath the pallid brushing, all is vague and lost in dreams.

All is a shade of grey, cloaked in the color of fog:
The sky with its ancient pinions, the water and the poplars,
Old friends, reconciled, so easily, with the haze of the past autumn,
Like all things which will soon be nothing but the faintest memory.

The victorious mist, against the pale depth of air,
Has diluted even the accustomed towers,
Whose grey thoughts are now gone forever,
Like some vague dream, or a geometry of vapor.