When trees have lost remembrance of the leaves that spring bequeaths to summer, autumn weaves and loosens mournfully — this dirge, to whom does it belong — who treads the hidden loom? When peaks are overwhelmed with snow and ice, and clouds with crepe bedeck and shroud the skies — nor any sun or moon or star, it seems, can wedge a path of light through such black dreams — All motion cold, and dead all traces thereof: What sudden shock below, or spark above, starts torrents raging down till rivers surge — that aid the first small crocus to emerge? The earth will turn and spin and fairly soar, that couldn't move a tortoise-foot before — and planets permeate the atmosphere till misery depart and mystery clear! — And yet, so insignificant a hearse? — who gave it the endurance so to brave such elements? — shove winter down a grave? — and then lead on again the universe?