The skies they were ashen and sober; The leaves they were crisped and
sere -- The leaves they were withering and
sere; It was night in the lonesome October Of my most immemorial year: It was hard by the dim lake of Auber, In the misty mid region of Weir: -- It was down by the dank tarn of Auber, In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
On every side of me stretched a bleak and desolate expanse of plain, covered with a tall overgrowth of
sere grass, which rustled and whistled in the autumn wind with heaven knows what mysterious and disquieting suggestion.
Hester gazed after him a little while, looking with a half fantastic curiosity to see whether the tender grass of early spring would not be blighted beneath him and show the wavering track of his footsteps,
sere and brown, across its cheerful verdure.
