The mists of a summer ending,
A tree where the last bird sings,
The day and the night hours blending,
You will remember these things;
Slow spirals of smoke from the burning
Of dead leaves under the wall,
And hope, from ambition turning,
After it all. The spirit of a soundless treading,
worn steps where stray moonbeams fell,
The hour and the timeless dreading,
You will remember them well;
A rhyme with its faint words spoken
By a dimly-remembered tongue,
A note, and a listener broken
After a song. And then in the quiet shading
Moved from the heart's hot fret,
The years and a lifetime fading,
You will remember them yet;
Your joy in the joy forsaken,
Fragrance of flowers long forgot
Will stir and in beauty waken
When I am not.