The dying leaves fall fast,
Chestnut, willow, oak, and beech,
All brown and withered lie.
Now swirling in the cutting blast,
Now sodden under foot — they teach
That one and all must die.
This autumn of the year
Comes sadly home to my poor heart,
Whose youthful hopes are fled.
The darkening days are drear,
Each love once mine I see depart
As withered leaves and dead.
But is it all decay?
All present loss? — no gain remote?
Monotony of pain?
Ah no: I hear a lay
The robin sings — how sweet the note,
A pure unearthly strain.
And, of all flowers the first,
Beneath these leaves in spring shall blow
Sweet violets blue and white.
So all lost loves shall burst,
In springlike beauty, summer glow,
In Heaven upon our sight.
