Richard Garnett (1835–1906)

I WILL not rail or grieve when torpid eld

Frosts the slow-journeying blood, for I shall see

The lovelier leaves hang yellow on the tree,

The nimbler brooks in icy fetters held.

Methinks the aged eye that first beheld

Pale Autumn in her waning pageantry,

Then knew himself, dear Nature, child of thee,

Marking the common doom, that all compell’d.

No kindred we to her belovèd broods,

If, dying these, we draw a selfish breath;

But one path travel all their multitudes,

And none dispute the solemn Voice that saith:

Sun to thy setting; to your autumn, woods;

Stream to thy sea; and man unto thy death.