 | Old Year Leaves |  |
151
THE LATE AUTUMN IS DYING.
The late Autumn is dying,
Dead leaves strew the land—
Signs of sorrow now lying
On every hand;
While I walk full of sadness
In a garden once fair,
Where before all was gladness,
I find trouble there.
Dead leaves strew the land—
Signs of sorrow now lying
On every hand;
While I walk full of sadness
In a garden once fair,
Where before all was gladness,
I find trouble there.
In a hedge-row wind-shaken
To wildest unrest,
Forlorn and forsaken,
I see a bird's nest,—
Its soft down decaying—
Its fledglings all flown,—
Nought save the shell staying
Deserted and lone.
To wildest unrest,
Forlorn and forsaken,
I see a bird's nest,—
Its soft down decaying—
Its fledglings all flown,—
Nought save the shell staying
Deserted and lone.
152
Then the thought cometh cleaving
The depths of my mind—
Soon we too must be leaving
Our loved homes behind,—
The drear tomb will enclose us,
Life's pilgrimage o'er,—
“And the place that now knows us
Shall know us no more.”
The depths of my mind—
Soon we too must be leaving
Our loved homes behind,—
The drear tomb will enclose us,
Life's pilgrimage o'er,—
“And the place that now knows us
Shall know us no more.”
| Old Year Leaves | |