Now it is fitting, and becomes us all
To think how fast our time of being fades.
The Year puts down his mead-cup, with a sigh,
And kneels, deep in the red and yellow glades,
And tells his beads like one about to die;
For, when the last leaves fall,
He must away unto a bare, cold cell
In white St. Winter's monastery; there
To do hard penance for the joys that were,
Until the New Year tolls his passing-bell.

And 'tis in vain to whisper, "Be of cheer,
There is a resurrection after death;
When Autumn tears will turn to Spring-time rain,
As through the earth the Spirit quickeneth
Toward the old, glad Summer-life again!"
He will not smile to hear,
But only look more sorrowful, and say,
"How can you mock me if you love me? No;
The day draws very nigh when I must go;
The new will be the new; I pass away.