And dresseth her green, and decketh her sward,
Like virgins, that early awaited the Lord,
On the morn of his waking sublime!
Oh, to die in the Spring-time,—the young joyous Spring,
When scarce have outbudded the sprigs that they fling
In the cold bed they hallow:—when forest birds sing
Their wood-notes too gaily for requiem due:
Oh, this did appal me, as soulless I grew!
VI.
The Autumn wind—oh hear it howl!