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III.
And tender Autumn through the forest
glides,
And when the chilling showers begin to
fall.
The languid summer in her bed she hides,
Till life departs. Then lovingly a pall
Of leaves all gold and red
She weaves to robe her dead ;
Yet knows she’ll wake again at spring’s
glad call.
IV.
So let it be with me when I am dying—
My mother’s kiBS, the evening’s BunBet
smile.
So let me lie, like summer softly lying,
With autumn’s flaming leaves for funeral
pile.
There shall be “light at even,”
And a glad morn in heaven—
Weep not, fond hearts,—’tis but “a little
while.”
