How near, how swift, the inevitable goal:
Still, still she smiles, though from her careless feet
The bounty and the fruitful strength are gone,
And through the soft long wandering days goes on
The silent sere decadence sad and sweet.
The kingbird and the pensive thrush are fled,
Children of light, too fearful of the gloom;
The sun falls low, the secret word is said,
The mouldering woods grow silent as the tomb;
Even the fields have lost their sovereign grace,