AS when, these autumn days, I ride
Along the painted country-side,
Meadow and way and wood go by,
A never-ending race,
But yet, beyond their passing, my
Wachusett holds his place;

So let each wingèd month and year
Sweep into place and disappear;
In order seen and loved, be sure!
Ere ends its period;
But let, beyond them all, endure
One year, and that be God.