In Autumn

The gold-red leaves have burned
To their last great glow, and died
And underfoot
By the strong oak's root
They are seized by the angry wind and spurned
And into a common grave have turned
For Summer--warm and wide.

A year must a sapling wage
Its life with the sun and rain,
Then its tender youth
Without reck or ruth
Is frozen and beaten to harsh old age
By a stroke of Nature mother's rage
And the sturdy fight seems vain.

It wails to the oak o'erhead
As the coffin-cold wraps round
"The end of life
Is toil and strife
And the secret of being, I have found
Is a seed in the wind and a log on the ground.
I hope I will soon be dead."

"Peace little struggler--sleep"--
And the great oak croons a song,
"Death is but night
And a cradle white
For one dark space may the shadows creep,
Then Spring will rise from her dungeon keep
And life wake, wise and strong."