The Ghost-yard of the Goldenrod

When the first silent frost has trod

The ghost-yard of the goldenrod,

And laid the blight of his cold hand

Upon the warm autumnal land,

And all things wait the subtle change

That men call death, is it not strange

That I — without a care or need,

Who only am an idle weed —

Should wait unmoved, so frail, so bold,

The coming of the final cold!