"The clematis shows that the summer is nearly over; then follows autumn, and after it comes winter, which always reminds me of death--the end of everything."
In purple splendour drooping,
The clematis by the gate,
Is the symbol of summer departing,
The summer which may not wait.
And autumn, with gifts so precious,
How soon it passeth away;
It crowneth the year with sadness--
It lingers, but may not stay.
Like old age, followeth winter,
And through its chilly breath
We dimly see in a mirror,
The misty face of death.
To the living spring returneth,
But what avails to the dead,
That the grass should be green above them
The primrose bloom o'er their head?
Is there aught remaineth of knowledge,
Of hope, of faith, or of love.
When the winter of death is round us?
And only a mound above.
In some graveyard is left for a token
That we who once were, are not now.
That ineffable mystic presence
We call death, stooped and kissed our brow.
* * * * *
And we--we rose and followed
Out into the blackness of night;
And none whom we left behind us
May know if the morning light
Ever breaks on a great hereafter;
Or if death is the end of life,
And a dreamless annihilation
Be the finish of earthly strife.
