Dead underneath these drifts of red and gold,
Where golden-rod doth wave
O’er summer’s new-made grave
Deep down within the dark and frosty mold?
“Alas, alas! one knows
That with the fading rose
And with the rustling of the dead leaves down,
The splendor soon will fade
From mountain height and glade,
And all the earth lie withered, bare, and brown.