WHEN the first silent frost has trod
The ghost-yard of the goldenrod,
–
And laid the blight of his cold hand
Upon the warm autumnal land,
–
And all things wait the subtle change
That men call death, is it not strange
–
That I -without a care or need,
Who only am an idle weed-
–
Should wait unmoved, so frail, so bold,
The coming of the final cold!
– The Ghost-yard of the Goldenrod by William Bliss Carman
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