Whither ?
All spangled are the beech trees, with motes of autumn
gold,1
gold,1
And ’neath their spreading red leaves is many a love-tale
told :2
told :2
O’erclouds the sky with shadow, the thunder showers
fall,3
fall,3
And fade away the sunbeams—away beyond recal.4
The babbling brook o’er-ripples the pebbles smooth
and white,5
and white,5
The water-lilies quiver, and tremble in the light :6
Arise the wind and tempest, from whence we may not
know,7
know,7
The brook becomes a torrent, away the lilies flow !8
The prisoned lark is straining his little throat to raise9
The song that once on green turf he sang to Heaven’s
praise :10
praise :10
His shrill sweet notes ascending, in melody uprise,11
Re-echoing till their music is lost amid the skies.12
Ah ! Whither go the gold motes, and where the lilies
white,13
white,13
Borne onward by the torrent, resistless from our sight ?14
And whither goes the brooklet, and where the birdie’s
lay15
lay15
Is it unto that Hereafter, whither all must pass away ?16