 | The Fall of the Leaf |  |
“By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Fancy comes, at twilight grey,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Pity does awhile repair
To mourn, a weeping pilgrim, there.”
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Fancy comes, at twilight grey,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Pity does awhile repair
To mourn, a weeping pilgrim, there.”
| The Fall of the Leaf | |