Sometimes in the middle autumn days, The windless days when the swallows have flown, And the sere elms brood in the mist, Each tree a being, rapt, alone,
I know, not as in barren thought, But wordlessly, as the bones know, What quenching of my brain, what numbness, Wait in the dark grave where I go.
And I see the people thronging the street, The death-marked people, they and I Goalless, rootless, like leaves drifting, Blind to the earth and to the sky;
Nothing believing, nothing loving, Not in joy nor in pain, not heeding the stream Of precious life that flows within us, But fighting, toiling as in a dream.
So shall we in the rout of life Some thought, some faith, some meaning save, And speak it once before we go In silence to the silent grave...
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The windless days when the swallows have flown,
And the sere elms brood in the mist,
Each tree a being, rapt, alone,
I know, not as in barren thought,
But wordlessly, as the bones know,
What quenching of my brain, what numbness,
Wait in the dark grave where I go.
And I see the people thronging the street,
The death-marked people, they and I
Goalless, rootless, like leaves drifting,
Blind to the earth and to the sky;
Nothing believing, nothing loving,
Not in joy nor in pain, not heeding the stream
Of precious life that flows within us,
But fighting, toiling as in a dream.
So shall we in the rout of life
Some thought, some faith, some meaning save,
And speak it once before we go
In silence to the silent grave...
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