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!
A short retirement urges a sweet return.
Ere the blabbing eastern scout, The nice morn, on th' Indian steep From her cabin'd loop-hole peep.
To many a youth and many a maid, dancing in the chequer'd shade.
Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day.
On the tawny sands and shelves trip the pert fairies and the dapper elves.