by Donald MacDonald

Poor autumn leaves : summer has fled;
Your short-lived hours of life are o'er,
And now ye fall to rise no more,
But on the ground lie withered.

Poor autumn leaves : mark how they fall;
Not in thick clusters as they grow
Upon the parent stem ; ah, no,
But one by one they drop off all.

"Brother mine," each says to me;
"Though now thy summer's sun doth shine
When autumn comes, our fate is thine;
Alone thou must meet death as we."

Poor falling leaves, 'tis true ye say :
Like ye I am a thing of dust,
And in the autumn fall I must:
But not like ye, to die for aye.

I have a hope again to bloom
Beneath a fairer sun than this,
Where all is happiness and bliss—
That happy land beyond the tomb.

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