When the flowers of Summer die,
When the birds of Summer fly,
When the winds of Autumn sigh,
I shall depart.

When the mourning Earth receives
Last of all the faded leaves,—
When the wailing forest grieves,
I shall depart.

When are garnered grain and fruit,
When all insect life is mute,
I shall drop my broken lute;
I shall depart.

When the fields are brown and bare,
Nothing left that's good or fair,
And the hoar-frost gathers there,
I shall depart.

Not with you, O songsters, no!
To no Southern clime I go,—
By a way none living know
I shall depart.

Many aching hearts may yearn,
Many lamps till midnight burn,
But I never shall return,
When I depart.

Trembling, fearing, sorely tried,
Waiting for the ebbing tide,
Who, oh! who will be my guide
When I depart?

Once the river cold and black
Rolled its waves affrighted back,—
I shall see a shining track
When I depart.

There my God and Saviour passed,
He will be my guide at last,—
Clinging to his merits fast,
I shall depart.

—Written in 1858.