 | Collected poems of Henry Thoreau |  |
138
I MARK THE SUMMER'S SWIFT DECLINE
I mark the summer's swift decline
The springing sward its grave clothes weaves
Whose rustling woods the gales confine
The aged year turns on its couch of leaves.
The springing sward its grave clothes weaves
Whose rustling woods the gales confine
The aged year turns on its couch of leaves.
Oh could I catch the sounds remote
Could I but tell to human ear—
The strains which on the breezes float
And sing the requiem of the dying year.
Could I but tell to human ear—
The strains which on the breezes float
And sing the requiem of the dying year.
| Collected poems of Henry Thoreau | |