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The graveyard, ne’ertheless, is preaching more

To thinking minds than many homilies,—

It tells in no uncertain language of

The vanity in all which here we love,—

That all our restless seeking after bliss

Is but the drifting to another shore.

That men and empires have their little day,

Then turn to dust, as others have before,

That death is still the monarch of the world,

Before whose feet all things at last are hurled,

Before whose realm there is no closing door,

And has for all but one sad, darksome way.

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Of all the seasons of the year there’s none

To melancholy people, like the fall,

That is, to persons of poetic mind,

For in this season they a beauty find

In earth and sky, which is transcending all

The wondrous glory of the summer gone.

For all its mellow beauty has a sadness,

Twixt tears and smiles, a sadness seen and heard

In nature’s varied aspects and its notes,

Upon the air’s dim haziness it floats:

The shrill cry of the migratory bird,

And tunes of vintage-reapers in their gladness.