Death as the Teacher of Love-Lore

'Twas in mid autumn, and the woods were still.
A brooding mist from out the marshlands lay
Like age's clammy hand upon the day,
Soddening it; — and the night rose dank and chill.
I watched the sere leaves falling, falling, till
Old thoughts, old hopes, seemed fluttering too away,
And then I sighed to think how life's decay,
And change, and time's mischances, Love might kill.
Sudden a shadowy horseman, at full speed
Spurring a pale horse, passed me swiftly by,
And mocking shrieked, "Thy love is dead indeed,
Haste to the burial!" — With a bitter cry
I swooned, and wake to wonder at my creed,
Learning from Death that Love can never die.