The wood is still. I do not hear

The wood is still. I do not hear

A single bird-song grieved or gay,

Or other sound's hint than the sere

Whispering of withered leaves downstrewn

On the spent leaves of yesterday,

And a hid footstep drawing near.

My heart is still. I do not hear

A human echo grieved or gay

Such as has been this or that year,

Only the sigh of my words downstrewn

On the spent words of yesterday,

And Death's hushed footstep drawing near.