Chance, say, or fate, that works through good and evil;
Or destiny, that nothing may retard,
That to some end, above life’s empty level,
Perhaps withholds reward.
PART IV
LATE AUTUMN
They who die young are blest.—
Should we not envy such?—
They are Earth’s happiest,
God-loved and favored much!—
They who die young are blest.
I
Sick and sad, propped with pillows, she sits at her window:
When the dog’s-tooth violet comes
With April showers,
And the wild-bee haunts and hums
About the flowers,
We shall never wend as when
Love laughed leading us from men
Over violet vale and glen,
Where the red-bird sang for hours,
And we heard the flicker drum.
Now November heavens are gray:
Autumn kills
Every joy—like leaves of May
In the rills.—
Here I sit and lean and listen
To a voice that has arisen
In my heart; with eyes that glisten
Gazing at the happy hills,
Fading dark blue, far away.
II
She looks down upon the dying garden: