For This Is The True

Coldly, Sadly Descends The Autumn Evening. The Field Strewn With Its Dank Yellow Drifts Of Wither'd Leaves, And The Elms, Fade Into Dimness Apace, Silent; Hardly A Shout From A Few Boys Late At Their Play!

Truth Sits Upon The Lips Of Dying Men, And Falsehood, While I Lived, Was Far From Mine.

To Hear The World Applaud The Hollow Ghost Which Blamed The Living Man.

What Shelter To Grow Ripe Is Ours? What Leisure To Grow Wise?

Waiting For The Spark From Heaven To Fall.