And smile at thee—but thou art not of those
That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey.
Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north-wind’s breath,
And stars to set, but all—
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! 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?