Hear thou, O man, our autumn chant
While sunbeams coldly o'er us slant,
And mournfully we fall so low
To don our winding sheet of snow,
There doomed in silence to decay.
So, too, thou, man, must pass away;
Thy springs of love shall lower run
Until thy life's last setting sun;
Then in thy grave-suit, coldly wound,
Like us return to mother ground.