When trees have lost remembrance of the leaves that spring bequeathes to summer, autumn weaves and loosens mournfully -- this dirge, to whom does it belong -- who treads the hidden loom? When peaks are overwhelmed with snow and ice, and clouds with crepe bedeck and shroud the skies -- nor any sun or moon or star, it seems, can wedge a path of light through such black dreams -- all motion cold, and dead all trace thereof: What sudden shock below, or spark above, starts torrents raging down till rivers surge -- that aid the first small crocus to emerge? The earth will turn and spin and fairly soar, that couldn't move a tortoise foot before -- and planets permeate the atmosphere till misery depart and mystery clear! -- And yet, so insignificant a hearse? -- who gave it the endurance so to brave such elements? -- shove winter down a grave? -- and then lead on again the universe? |