Now from the autumn sky,
Now from the fading year,
Looks forth the mystery
Our souls so greatly fear.

It whispers in the breeze,
It murmurs in the rill,
It rustles in the leaves,
And echoes from the hill.

Oh, Death! thou wondrous power,
Transforming all below,
Why should we dread the hour
That will thy secrets show?

Thou art the angel sent
To save, and not destroy,
To free the captives pent,
And lift the gates of joy.

Through thee our Christ has passed
To mount His priestly throne,
To reign until at last
He comes to call His own.

Then from thine icy reign,
Out of thy loathsome tomb,
His loved ones shall regain
Primeval Eden’s bloom.

Leonard Fletcher Bittle
Buttonwood and Other Poems, 1904