Are the leaves falling round about
The churchyard on the hill?
Is the glow of autumn going out?
Is that the winter chill?
And yet through winter’s noise, no doubt
The graves are very still!
Are the woods empty, voiceless, bare?
On sodden leaves do you tread?
Is nothing left of all those fair?
Is the whole summer fled?
Well, so from this unwholesome air
Have gone away these dead!
The seasons pierce me; like a leaf
I feel the autumn blow,
And tremble between nature’s grief
And the silent death below.
O Summer, thou art very brief!
Where do these exiles go?
—George MacDonald
