Summer is over, and the leaves are falling,
Gold, fire-enamelled in the glowing sun;
The sobbing pinetop, the cicada calling
Chime men to vesper-musing, day is done.
The fresh, green sod, in dead, dry leaves is hidden;
They rustle very sadly in the breeze;
Some breathing from the past comes, all unbidden,
And in my heart stir withered memories.
Day fades away; the stars show in the azure,
Bright with the glow of eyes that know not tears,
Unchanged, unchangeable, like God's good pleasure,
They smile and reck not of the weary years.
Men tell us that the stars it knows are leaving
Our onward rolling globe, and in their place
New constellations rise—is death bereaving
The old earth, too, of each familiar face?
Our loved ones leave us; so we all grow fonder
Of their world than of ours; for here we seem
Alone in haunted houses, and we wonder
Which is the waking life, and which the dream.