Each falling leaf his conscience stings
And thoughts of future judgment brings;
Yea, warns him that the time is nigh
When he in black despair must die.
Unlike the life in folly spent,
And now with sinful years is bent
Low at the grave with dismal moan;
Nay, "for the righteous light is sown,"
Yea, light that brightens in the vale
Of falling leaves, where he can hail