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,