Fall, crumbling, at a breath;
And sick at last with that great sorrow’s shock,
As some poor prisoner pressing to the bars
His forehead, calls on mercy to unlock
The chambers of the stars:
You, turning off from life’s first mocking glow,
Leaning it may be still on broken faith,
Will down the vale of autumn gladly go
To the chill winter, death.
Hark! from the empty bosom of the grove