And flowers to wither at the north wind’s breath,
And stars to set—but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!
We know when moons shall wane,
When summer birds from far shall cross the sea,
When autumn’s hue shall tinge the golden grain—
But who shall teach us when to look for thee!
Is it when spring’s first gale
Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie?
Is it when roses in our paths grow pale?—