I had a hat. It was not all a hat,—

The breaking waves dashed high On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky Their giant branches tossed.

Calm on the bosom of thy God, Fair spirit, rest thee now!

Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north-wind’s breath, And stars to set; but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

Come to the sunset tree! The day is past and gone; The woodman’s axe lies free, And the reaper’s work is done.

In the busy haunts of men.

I have looked on the hills of the stormy North, And the larch has hung his tassels forth.