On the dry leaves,
In letters of white fire,
The frost has written:
M'ne, M'ne, Tekel Upharsin.
And all night long
I heard the oaks
Tearing their beards in lamentation,
And the maples
Bending their garments
Stained in the feast days:
While some Daniel of the wind
Arose among them
And spoke in ghost of prophecy:
“The torch-carriers in the armies of the snow
Shall burn your days
Like wooden houses
The idol-makers of the hail
Shall come with chisel and hammers
And beat upon you,
Till you stand like carved silences;
And nothing shall live in you,
Save death,—
And nothing shall stir the land
Save the wings of the black angel!”