The withered flowers are crumbling in the mould,
The Heaven is gray and blank, the Earth is drear,
And fallen leaves are heaped on Summer’s bier!
Sweet songs are out of place, however sweet,
When all things else are wrapt in funeral gloom,
True Poets never pipe to dancing feet,
But only elegies around a tomb!
Away with fancy now, the Year demands
A sterner chaplet, and a deeper lay,
A wreath of cypress woven with pious hands,