The wood is still. I do not hear 
A single bird-song grieved or gay, 
Or other sound's hint than the sere 
Whispering of withered leaves downstrewn 
On the spent leaves of yesterday, 
And a hid footstep drawing near. 

My heart is still. I do not hear 
A human echo grieved or gay 
Such as has been this or that year, 
Only the sigh of my words downstrewn 
On the spent words of yesterday, 
And Death's hushed footstep drawing near.