This hand shall tear No more shall shoot; Thou wicked weed. THE TREES OF THE WOOD. "That which is crooked cannot be made straight." As, walking through a wood, one sees So in the world- some men are good; These are the straight ones of the wood; Thus Nature tells us to beware, And both our praise and censure spare; But hath some beauty for its own. THE LEAVES OF THE WOOD. "As of the green leaves on a thick tree, so is the generation of flesh and blood." Bright green, and then a darker hue, A little marrèd with the sun and dust; Which tells us that the leaves are getting old; Scattered, or piled in heaps upon the green; The trees have lost their crown, The dead damp leaves are turned to earthy brown, They're sunk in Earth's deep tomb: Thus all created things do pass away, And man too has his day; Childhood, youth, manhood, age-when these are gone, His cycle is complete, his year is done. THE DYING LEAVES. "A word in season." The leaves that are falling 'All ye who pass by, And others shall tread And crush us when dead, Themselves to be trod In their time fixed by God; And the fresh winds which blew, And the soft rains and dew, And the light of the Sun, Now our short day is done, |