When Autumn, like a prophet filled with fears,
Warns Summer’s golden beauty of that death
Which soon the chilling blast of Winter’s breath
Shall bring; fond Nature by her falling tears
Attests her grief unchanged through all the years,
And from the blossoms that lie dead beneath
Seizing the unseen colours, weaves a wreath,
And lo! a garland on each tree appears.
So, when to thee life’s end is drawing near
And weeping kinsmen kneel about thy bed
May all the rays of goodness thou hast shed
From out the buried past shine bright and clear,
And golden deeds and thoughts of heavenly hues
Over thy fading mind soft light diffuse.