Now along the solemn heights 
Fade the Autumn's altar-lights; 
   Down the great earth's glimmering chancel 
Glide the days and nights. 

Little kindred of the grass, 
Like a shadow in a glass 
   Falls the dark and falls the stillness; 
We must rise and pass. 

We must rise and follow, wending 
Where the nights and days have ending, -- 
   Pass in order pale and slow 
Unto sleep extending. 

Little brothers of the clod, 
Soul of fire and seed of sod, 
   We must fare into the silence 
At the knees of God. 

Little comrades of the sky, 
Wing to wing we wander by, 
   Going, going, going, going, 
Softly as a sigh. 

Hark, the moving shapes confer, 
Globe of dew and gossamer, 
   Fading and ephemeral spirits 
In the dusk astir. 

Moth and blossom, blade and bee, 
Worlds must go as well as we, 
   In the long procession joining 
Mount and star and sea. 

Toward the shadowy brink we climb 
Where the round year rolls sublime, 
   Rolls, and drops, and falls forever 
In the vast of time. 

Like a plummet plunging deep 
Past the utmost reach of sleep, 
   Till remembrance has no longer 
Care to laugh or weep.