Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake;
For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take.[9]
(e) The feathers of the willow
Are half of them grown yellow
Above the swelling stream;
And ragged are the bushes,
And rusty now the rushes,
And wild the clouded gleam.
The thistle now is older,
His stalks begin to moulder,