" The Changeth the Times and the Seasons. "

Gather not the leaves,
All golden brown and sere,
Falling now one by one,
Through red November's sun,
Under the breath
Of the withering year.

They are like thoughts
Flung on the deep world-stream,
Ripe, many-color'd, free;
Some will there wither'd be,
Some there will keep
Warm the Great Sleeper's dream.

They are like tears
Of an immemorial sorrow,
Tears of the sobbing trees,
Shed on the mourning breeze;
For Balder is dead,
And comes not to woo on the morrow.

So let them rest:
Bruise not their wintry bed,
That like some tapestry,
Beautiful here may be,
And undefiled, —
Soft-woven for the dead.