IN AUTUMN

The gold-red leaves have burned

To their last great glow, and died

And underfoot

By the strong oak's root

They are seized by the angry wind and spurned

And into a common grave have turned

For Summer — warm and wide.

A year must a sapling wage

Its life with the sun and rain,

Then its tender youth

Without reck or ruth

Is frozen and beaten to harsh old age

By a stroke of Nature mother's rage

And the sturdy fight seems vain.

It wails to the oak o'erhead

As the coffin-cold wraps round

“The end of life

Is toil and strife

And the secret of being, I have found

Is a seed in the wind and a log on the ground.

I hope I will soon be dead.”

“Peace little struggler — sleep” —

And the great oak croons a song,

“Death is but night

And a cradle white

For one dark space may the shadows creep,

Then Spring will rise from her dungeon keep

And life wake, wise and strong.”