And fallen leaves from many a wintry hour,
Must mingle in the mold,
Before the harvest whitens on the plain,
Bearing a hundredfold.
Patience, O weary heart!
Let all thy sparkling hours depart,
And all thy hopes be withered with the frost,
And every effort tempest-tossed—
So when all life’s green leaves
Are fallen, and moldered underneath the sod,