And soon the leaves will strew the ground,
And whirl with rustling ardor round,
Or lie in heaps together,
Their hues of red, of brown, of gold,
Will blacken, as they change to mould
By action of the weather.
But leaves will grow where once they grew,
Will bud, and bloom, and perish too,
The same as all the others,
As we through youth, and joy, and grief,
Must find at last a sure relief,
As did our many brothers.
Like in the leaf, no life-blood flows,
When frosts of death the fountain close,
From which it flow'd, to nourish.
And like the leaf, another spring
Around us shall her gladness fling;
Another life shall flourish.
Our bodies turn to dust or mould.
As lifeless as the rocks, and cold,
But life's fair Tree is living.
And fadeless green leaves we shall be,
Because the Fountain of that Tree
Eternal life is giving.
* * * * *
CHRISTMAS.
Old father Time, his cruel scythe
Has swung full oft around,
Since last the merry Christmas, bells
Rang out their cheerful sound.
With cruel vigor he has held
His great, impartial sway,
And many thousands mown to earth,
Who saw last Christmas day.
For some have left this world for aye,
Who dwelt with us last year;
Glad voices heard amongst us then,
We never more shall hear.
But still we'll build our Christmas fires,
And sing our Christmas songs,
And for one day forget our griefs,
Our failures and our wrongs.
Then ring, ye joyful bells, ring out;
Ye crashing cymbals fall;
And for old Christmas, hale and stout,
Sound up, ye harps and all.
Let music's loud and sweetest strain
Beat from our hearts each ill;
Let thoughts of those assuage our pain,
Who are around us still.
Oh, winsome maid, oh, hearty youth,
I urge you on to glee,
For, in your innocence and truth,
You all are dear to me.
Nor youth, nor age should cherish gloom,
And voices oft should sing,
So give the gladsome voices room,
And let the joy-bells ring.