by T.F. Young
The grass is wet with heavy dew, The leaves have changed their bright green hue, To brighter red, or golden; The morning sun shines with a glow, As bright and pure as long ago, In time ye left the olden. One tree is cloth'd with scarlet dress, And one, with brown leaf'd loveliness, Delights the eye that gazes; While others varied tints display, But all, in beauteous array, Delight us, and amaze us. We see the trees in beauty clad, But still that beauty makes us sad, E'en while we may admire, For death has caus'd that sudden bloom Stern death, the tenant of the tomb, Or funereal pyre. The ruthless, bitter, biting air Hath dried the life which flourish'd there, Throughout the warmer seasons; The nourishment hath ceas'd to flow Through veins, where once it us'd to go-- Hath ceas'd for diff'rent reasons. And soon the leaves will strew the ground, And whirl with rustling ardor round, Or lie in heaps together, Their hues of red, of brown, of gold, Will blacken, as they change to mould By action of the weather. But leaves will grow where once they grew, Will bud, and bloom, and perish too, The same as all the others, As we through youth, and joy, and grief, Must find at last a sure relief, As did our many brothers. Like in the leaf, no life-blood flows, When frosts of death the fountain close, From which it flow'd, to nourish. And like the leaf, another spring Around us shall her gladness fling; Another life shall flourish. Our bodies turn to dust or mould. As lifeless as the rocks, and cold, But life's fair Tree is living. And fadeless green leaves we shall be, Because the Fountain of that Tree Eternal life is giving.