The Ghost-Yard of the Goldenrod
WHEN the first silent frost has trod
The ghost-yard of the goldenrod,
And laid the blight of his cold hand
Upon the warm autumnal land,
And all things wait the subtle change
That men call death, is it not strange
That I—without a care or need,
Who only am an idle weed—
Should wait unmoved, so frail, so bold,
The coming of the final cold!
