Shiver the leaves of autumns' fall,  
Are thou as cold as I?
Now deaf to the joy of nature's call,
And whim of thee deny.
Give up your toil forgotten sun,
The geese have set the way,
The languish of youth is all but done,
And hour spares none today.
Be era or be season, awake to only die,
On wind thy passion's roam.
To Eastern shore, to death they fly,
Lost and far from home.
And forget thee then thy fancy's brood,
That burned within it's prime.
Thy heart returneth to pensive mood,
For an Elegy of Time.