How like a lingerer the sun lies still
And gilds his grave upon the cloud-barred sky!
About his flame the mourning winds would die;
Earth listens: and is hushed. Upon the hill
The slow-foot oxen pause; the copses thrill
To the near night, each russet branch burnt dry
Hangs golden with its own mortality;
In griefless wonder sleeps the Autumn's will.

All these in calm attend their sure decay;
So from our heart shall fade the sudden gleam,
And lover's music, that so high did seem,
Falls on a dirge's cadence quite away:
Death in Life's mantle slumbers, and our day
Is but an image passing in his dream.