NO sound of the beech-nuts falling

Through the green and yellow leaves, 

Only the rainy west wind calling

The swallows from the eaves. 

No fading trees are shedding

Their golden splendor yet; 

But a sunset gleam is spreading,

That seems like a regret.

And the crimson-breasted birdie

Sings his sweet funereal hymn 

On the oak leaves grim and sturdy,

In the twilight gathering dim. 

Death comes to pomp and glory;

They fade the sunny hours; 

And races old in story

Pass like the summer flowers.