The Tkiyes*-man has blown his horn,
And swift the days' declining;
The leaves drop off, in fields forlorn
Are tender grasses pining.
The earth will soon be cold and bare,
Her robe of glory falling;
Already to the mourner's prayer
The last wild bird is calling.
He sings so sweetly and so sad
A song of friends who parted,
That even if it find you glad,
It leaves you broken hearted.
The copses shudder in the breeze,
Some dream-known terror fearing.
Awake! O great and little trees!
The Judgment-day is nearing!
O men! O trees in copses cold!
Beware the rising weather!
Or late or soon, both young and old
Shall strew the ground together....
[*Tkiye: first blast of the Ram's horn.]