Moldering Portents

Swarms in the rain-bogged air again,

The rings, where rests the last, rusted in.

No portent could this hold--alas!

’Tis long since were the portents cast.

To mold, amass the veils worn thin,

The secondhand, the brass and tin.

The hair now curls, and droops the lash,

And billows in portent at last.