I especially liked the picture of the pile of withered branches, the texture of which matches with that of the sky, while suggesting a contrariness of death and life against the thriving leaves...
Ah, if only the bright opening in the sky wasn't that central.
One might even remember the lines below:
''...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...''