NOVEMBER
Hark you such sound as quivers? Kings will hear,As kings have heard, and tremble on their thrones;The old will feel the weight of mossy stones;The young alone will laugh and scoff at fear.It is the tread of armies marching near,From scarlet lands to lands forever pale;It is a bugle dying down the gale;It is the sudden gushing of a tear.And it is hands that grope at ghostly doors;And romp of spirit children on the pave;It is the tender sighing of the braveWho fell, ah! long ago, in futile wars;It is such sound as death; and, after all,’Tis but the forest letting dead leaves fall.The BellmanMahlon Leonard Fisher
Hark you such sound as quivers? Kings will hear,As kings have heard, and tremble on their thrones;The old will feel the weight of mossy stones;The young alone will laugh and scoff at fear.It is the tread of armies marching near,From scarlet lands to lands forever pale;It is a bugle dying down the gale;It is the sudden gushing of a tear.And it is hands that grope at ghostly doors;And romp of spirit children on the pave;It is the tender sighing of the braveWho fell, ah! long ago, in futile wars;It is such sound as death; and, after all,’Tis but the forest letting dead leaves fall.The BellmanMahlon Leonard Fisher
Hark you such sound as quivers? Kings will hear,As kings have heard, and tremble on their thrones;The old will feel the weight of mossy stones;The young alone will laugh and scoff at fear.It is the tread of armies marching near,From scarlet lands to lands forever pale;It is a bugle dying down the gale;It is the sudden gushing of a tear.And it is hands that grope at ghostly doors;And romp of spirit children on the pave;It is the tender sighing of the braveWho fell, ah! long ago, in futile wars;It is such sound as death; and, after all,’Tis but the forest letting dead leaves fall.
Hark you such sound as quivers? Kings will hear,
As kings have heard, and tremble on their thrones;
The old will feel the weight of mossy stones;
The young alone will laugh and scoff at fear.
It is the tread of armies marching near,
From scarlet lands to lands forever pale;
It is a bugle dying down the gale;
It is the sudden gushing of a tear.
And it is hands that grope at ghostly doors;
And romp of spirit children on the pave;
It is the tender sighing of the brave
Who fell, ah! long ago, in futile wars;
It is such sound as death; and, after all,
’Tis but the forest letting dead leaves fall.
The BellmanMahlon Leonard Fisher