IN LATE FALL.
Such days as break the wild bird's heart;
Such days as kill it and its songs;
A death which knows a sweeter part
Of days to which such death belongs.
And now old eyes are filled with tears,
As with the rain the frozen flowers;
Time moves so slowly one but fears
The burthen on his wasted powers.
And so he stopped;—and thou art dead!
And that is found which once was feared:—
A farewell to thy gray, gray head,
A goodnight to thy goodly beard!