Who
tremblest thro’ thy darkling red
On yon swoll’n brook that bubbles fast
By meadows breathing of the past,
And
woodlands holy to the dead;
Who
murmurest in the foliaged eaves
A song that slights the coming care,
And Autumn laying here and there
A
fiery finger on the leaves;
Who
wakenest with thy balmy breath
To myriads on the genial earth,
Memories of bridal, or of birth,
And
unto myriads more, of death.
O
wheresoever those may be,
Betwixt the slumber of the poles,
To-day they count as kindred souls;
They
know me not, but mourn with me.