What though earth's jewels disappear;
The turf, whereon I tread,
Ere Autumn blanch another year,
May rest above my head.
Touched by the finger of decay
Is every earthly love;
For joy, to shun my weary way,
Is registered above.
The languid brooklets yield their sighs,
A requiem o'er the tomb
Of sunny days and cloudless skies,
Enhancing Autumn's gloom.
The wild winds mutter, howl, and moan,
To scare my woodland walk,
And frightened fancy flees, to roam
Where ghosts and goblins stalk.
The cricket's sharp, discordant scream
Fills every sense with dread;
More terrible it scarce could seem,—
It voices all that's fled.
Yet here, upon this faded sod,—
Oh happy hours and fleet,—
When songsters' matin hymns to God
Were poured in strains so sweet,
My heart unbidden joined rehearse,
Perhaps 't was better made,
In mingling with the universe,
Beneath the maple's shade.
