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OUT through
the fields and the woods
And over the walls I have
wended;
I have climbed the hills of view
And
looked at the world, and descended;
I have come by
the highway home,
And lo, it is ended.
The leaves
are all dead on the ground,
Save those that the oak
is keeping
To ravel them one by one
And let them
go scraping and creeping
Out over the crusted snow,
When others are sleeping.
And the dead leaves lie
huddled and still,
No longer blown hither and
thither;
The last lone aster is gone;
The flowers
of the witch-hazel wither;
The heart is still aching
to seek,
But the feet question 'Whither?'
Ah, when
to the heart of man
Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things,
To yield with a grace
to reason,
And bow and accept tand accept the end
Of a love or a season?
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