Of Sleep and Death. The frosts of Trouble lay
Their withering touch upon our happiness,
Even as the hoar frosts of the Autumn kiss
The green lip from the unoffending leaves;
And Love and Hope and Youth’s warm cheerfulness
Flit from the heart—Age lonely sits and grieves,
Or sadly smiles, while Youth fondly his day-dream weaves.
Day draweth to its close—night cometh on—
Death standeth dimly on Life’s western verge,
Casting his shadow o’er the startled sun—