Page:Writings of Henry David Thoreau (1906) v5.djvu/451

Rh Where the same hand hath pillowed them,

Resigned to sleep upon the old year's throng.

The loneliest birch is brown and sere,

The farthest pool is strewn with leaves,

Which float upon their watery bier,

Where is no eye that sees, no heart that grieves.

The jay screams through the chestnut wood;

The crisped and yellow leaves around

Are hue and texture of my mood,

And these rough burs my heirlooms on the ground.

The threadbare trees, so poor and thin,

They are no wealthier than I;

But with as brave a core within

They rear their boughs to the October sky.

Poor knights they are which bravely wait

The charge of Winter's cavalry,

Keeping a simple Roman state,

Discumbered of their Persian luxury.

THE THAW