I will not rail or grieve when torpid eld
Frosts the slow-journeying blood, for I shall see
The lovelier leaves hang yellow on the tree,
The nimbler brooks in icy fetters held.
Methinks the aged eye that first beheld
Pale Autumn in her waning pageantry,
Then knew himself, dear Nature, child of thee,
Marking the common doom, that all compelled.
No kindred we to thy belovèd brods,
If, dying these, we drew a selfish breath;
But one path travel all their multitudes,
And none dispute the solemn voice that saith:
'Sun to thy setting; to your autumn, woods;
Stream to thy sea; and man unto thy death!'