The year draws nigh the edge of death; for see,
These dreary branches have already shed
Such myriad leaves, they lie in mounds of dead
At foot of each sad-hearted parent tree.
Yet, grim and stern as human soul might be,
The scarred, gray sycamores with defiant head
Like warriors stand, while in its shrunken bed
The languid stream flows on resignedly.
Life is aweary and in quiet here
Would rest awhile her case-tormented brain,
As dreams she of the fast-departing year;
While Melancholy, led by Memory's train,
With pensive step now gently steals anear,
To dew the ground with sacramental tear.
