WHEN the first silent frost has trod <br />The ghost-yard of the goldenrod, <br />And laid the blight of his cold hand <br />Upon the warm autumnal land, <br />And all things wait the subtle change <br />That men call death, is it not strange <br />That I— without a care or need, <br />Who only am an idle weed — <br />Should wait unmoved, so frail, so bold, <br />The coming of the final cold!<br /><br />Bliss William Carman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-ghost-yard-of-the-goldenrod/
