I Mark the Summer's Swift Decline

by Henry David Thoreau

I mark the summer's swift decline
The springing sward its grave clothes weaves
Whose rustling woods the gales confine
The aged year turns on its couch of leaves.

Oh could I catch the sounds remote
Could I but tell to human ear—
The strains on which the breezes float
And sing the requiem of the dying year.

Monadnock Valley Press > Thoreau