The voice of want made answer for her.
Once the bright days of summer pass by, a city takes on that sombre garb of grey, wrapt in which it goes about its labours during the long winter.

Its endless buildings look grey, its sky and its streets assume a sombre hue; the scattered, leafless trees and wind-blown dust and paper but add to the general solemnity of colour.

There seems to be something in the chill breezes which scurry through the long, narrow thoroughfares productive of rueful thoughts.

Not poets alone, nor artists, nor that superior order of mind which arrogates to itself all refinement, feel this, but dogs and all men.

These feel as much as the poet, though they have not the same power of expression.