Page:A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields.djvu/55

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autumn had bestrewed the vale With withered leaves,—the woods were left Bare, and of mystery bereft, And voiceless was the nightingale; Sad, almost dying in his dawn, A sick youth wandered slow, in tears, Once more in places far withdrawn That he had loved in earlier years. 'Woods that I love, adieu!—Your gloom, Your mourning, suits me, for I read In every leaf that falls, my doom! The hour approaches, and with speed. Epidaurus' fatal oracle! With every gust you seem to tell,— "Our leaves are yellow, see they die! They vanish, take a last long look, Thy night of death, too, draweth nigh; More pale than autumn, like the brook Thou glidest onward to the sea Wild-heaving of Eternity. Before the green grass on the mead, Before the vine-branch on the hill, Thy youth shall wither." And indeed I die. A breath, funereal, chill,