Here by the baring bough Raking up leaves, Often I ponder how Springtime deceives,- I, an old woman now, Raking up leaves.

The Earth, say'st thou? The Human race? By Me created? Sad its lot? Nay: I have no remembrance of such place: Such world I fashioned not.

Yes; quaint and curious war is! You shoot a fellow down You'd treat if met where any bar is, Or help to half-a-crown.

An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small, In blast-beruffled plume, Had chosen thus to fling his soul Upon the growing gloom. So little cause for carolings Of s…

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.

On a day-alack the day!- Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair Playing in the wanton air

Beauty's of a fading nature Has a season and is gone!