Beyond the falling leaves, the lapse of days,
The instability, the changing ways,
Is primal harmony, the song of praise.
The leaves lie deep upon the mountain slopes,
The mist the moorland holds and envelopes,
As dim, dark memories hide all earthly hopes:
What though the night be starless and forlorn?
What though a sigh on every breeze is borne?
Beyond us is the glory of the morn!
