Dirge in Woods

A wind sways the pines,

         And below

Not a breath of wild air;

Still as the mosses that glow

On the flooring and over the lines

Of the roots here and there.

The pine-tree drops its dead;

They are quiet, as under the sea.

Overhead, overhead

Rushes life in a race,

As the clouds the clouds chase;

         And we go,

And we drop like the fruits of the tree,

         Even we,

         Even so.