Far in the wood he lieth,
Sleeping alone
Where the wind of autumn sigheth,
Making its moan,
Where the golden beams are leaping
Bright overhead,
And the autumn leaves lie sleeping
Over the dead,
By the stream that runs forever,
Hurrying past,
'Neath the trees that bend and quiver
Wild in the blast;--
Deep in the wood he lieth,
Under the sod,
Where the wind of autumn sigheth,
Alone--with his God.