Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north - wind's breath, And stars to set; but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!
Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day.
Courage never to submit of yield.
Farewell happy fields, Where joy forever dwells: Hail, horrors, hail.
Thou canst not touch the freedom of my mind.
The nodding horror of whose shady brows Threats the forlorn and wandering passenger.