The leaves have not yet gone; then why do ye come,
O white flakes falling from a dusky cloud?
But yesterday my garden-plot was proud
With uncut sheaves of ripe chrysanthemum.
Some trees the winds have stripped; but look on some
'Neath double load of snow and foliage bowed,
Unnatural Winter fashioning a shroud
For Autumn's burial ere its pulse be numb.
Yet Nature plays not an inhuman part:
In her, our own vicissitudes we trace.
Do we not cling to our accustomed place,
Though journeying d**h have beckoned us to start?
And faded smiles oft linger in the face,
While grief's first flakes fall silent on the heart!