Ah, why Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore Only among the crowd and under roofs That our frail hands have raised?
Autumn, the year's last, loveliest smile.
Truth crushed to earth shall rise again,- The eternal years of God are hers; But Error, wounded, writhes with pain, And dies among his worshippers.
Still sweet with blossoms is the year's fresh prime.
And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, and the year smiles as it draws near its death.