Like scattered battalions, they fly with the breeze.
The rook, in robes sable, as mourner acts, chief;
In wood and field croaks for his much-deplored leaf.
Command from Thee goes forth;—Thou, true Forest-King;
Nonentity gives back each late stolen thing.
O Death! Thou restorest, now, the whole prey of thine;
The leaves, flowers, and fruits, in their due season shine.355
Consider, my friend, in thyself; now, awhile,
The spring and the autumn thou in thee seest smile.
Look thou that thy heart be green, yield its good fruits