NOW it is fitting, and becomes us all
  To think how fast our time of being fades.
The Year puts down his mead-cup, with a sigh,
  And kneels, deep in the red and yellow glades,
  And tells his beads like one about to die;
  For, when the last leaves fall,
He must away unto a bare, cold cell
  In white St. Winter's monastery; there
  To do hard penance for the joys that were,
Until the New Year tolls his passing-bell.

And 'tis in vain to whisper, "Be of cheer,
  There is a resurrection after death;
  When Autumn tears will turn to Spring-time rain,
  As through the earth the Spirit quickeneth
  Toward the old, glad Summer-life again!"
  He will not smile to hear,
  But only look more sorrowful, and say,
  "How can you mock me if you love me? No;
  The day draws very nigh when I must go;
  The new will be the new; I pass away.