FRESH snow is now the mountain's crown,
And clouds with growing day come down,
And I who in the spring time trod
With deerlike foot the upland sod,
Now from the valley sadly raise
To crag and peak the sick man's gaze.
All things are passing. Ice by night
Creeps o'er green fields and flow'rets bright;
And glittering morning sees the mead
Wrapped in the white robe of the Dead.
The autumn colours on the trees,
The solemn winds that rise and swell,
The louder voice of neighbouring seas,
The silent birds with cow'ring wings,
A time of Change and Ending tell;
And bid to all departing things,
And me, among the rest, Farewell.