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!