The quiet sense of something lost
Ring out old shapes of foul disease, Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Read my little fable: He that runs may read. Most can raise the flowers now, For all have got the seed.
Be near me when my light is low... And all the wheels of being slow.
All things human change.
The woods decay, the woods decay and fall.