Out through the fields and and the woods And over the walls I have wended; I have climbed the hills of view And looked at the world, and descended; I have come by the highway home; And lo,it is ended
The leaves are all dead on the ground, Save those that the oak is keeping To ravel them go scraping and creeping And let theme go scraping and creeping Out over the crusted snow,
When other are sleeping. And the dead leaves lie huddled and still, No longer blown hither and thither; The last lone aster is gone;
The flowers of the witch-hazel wither; The heart is still aching to seek, But the feet question Whither? Ah, when to the heart of man Was it ever less than a treason To go with the drift of things, To yield with a grace to reason And bow and accept the end Of a love or a reason?