The maple does not shed its leaves 

In one tempestuous scarlet rain, 

But softly, when the south wind grieves, 

Slow wandering over wood and plain, 

One by one they waver through 

The Indian summer's hazy blue, 

And drop at last on the forest mold, 

Coral and ruby and burning gold.

Our death is gradual like these;

We die with every waning day; 

There is no waft of sorrow's breeze

But bears some heart-leaf slow away; 

Up and on to the vast To-Be, 

Our life is going eternally! 

Less of life than we had last year

Throbs in your veins and throbs in mine; 

But the way to Heaven is growing clear, 

And the gates of the city fairer shine; 

And the day that our latest treasures flee, 

Wide they will open for you and me.