The bloom is gone, and with the bloom go I.

He went; his piping took a troubled sound Of storms that rage outside our happy ground; He could not wait their passing, he is dead!

Yes, thou art gone! and round me too the night In ever-nearing circle weaves her shade. I see her veil draw soft across the day, I feel her slowly chilling bre…

And that sweet city with her dreaming spires, She needs not June for beauty's heightening.

And there, a field rat, startled, squealing bleeds, His belly close to ground. I see the blade, Blood-stained, continue cutting weeds and shade

The years like great black oxen tread the world, And God the herdsman goads them on behind, And I am broken by their passing feet.

Knowing that certain nights whose sweetness lingers will keep returning to the earth and sea after we are gone, yes, this helps us to die.