I Love The Season Well

Whatever Poet, Orator, Or Sage May Say Of It, Old Age Is Still Old Age.

I Like That Ancient Saxon Phrase, Which Calls, The Burial-ground God's-acre.

Death Is The Chillness That Precedes The Dawn; We Shudder For A Moment, Then Awake In The Broad Sunshine Of The Other Life.

Tell Me Not, In Mournful Numbers, Life Is But An Empty Dream!

O Little Feet! That Such Long Years Must Wander On Through Hopes And Fears, Must Ache And Bleed Beneath Your Load; I, Nearer To The Wayside Inn Where Toil Shall Cease And Rest Begin, Am Weary, Thinking Of Your Road!