| |
| RED o’er the forest peers the setting sun; | |
| The line of yellow light dies fast away | |
| That crown’d the eastern copse; and chill and dun | |
| Falls on the moor the brief November day. | |
| |
| Now the tired hunter winds a parting note, | 5 |
| And Echo bids good-night from every glade; | |
| Yet wait awhile and see the calm leaves float | |
| Each to his rest beneath their parent shade. | |
| |
| How like decaying life they seem to glide | |
| And yet no second spring have they in store; | 10 |
| But where they fall, forgotten to abide | |
| Is all their portion, and they ask no more. | |
| |
| Soon o’er their heads blithe April airs shall sing, | |
| A thousand wild-flowers round them shall unfold, | |
| The green buds glisten in the dews of Spring, | 15 |
| And all be vernal rapture as of old. | |
| |
| Unconscious they in waste oblivion lie, | |
| In all the world of busy life around | |
| No thought of them—in all the bounteous sky | |
| No drop, for them, of kindly influence found. | 20 |
| |
| Man’s portion is to die and rise again: | |
| Yet he complains, while these unmurmuring part | |
| With their sweet lives, as pure from sin and stain | |
| As his when Eden held his virgin heart. | |
| |
