A spirit haunts the year's last hours
Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers...
The air is damp, and hush'd, and close,
As a sick man's room when he taketh repose
An hour before death;
My very heart faints and my whole soul grieves
At the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves,
And the breath
Of the fading edges of box beneath,
And the year's last rose...
~Alfred Tennyson (1809–1892), "Song," Poems, 1830