I sat in the sunlight thinking of life;I sat there, dreaming of Death.And a moth alit on the sun-dial's face,And the birds sang sleepily,And the leaves stirred,And the sun lay warm on the hills,And the afternoon grew old.
So, some day I knew the birds would sing,And the leaves would stir,And the afternoon grow old—And I would not be there.And the warmth went out of the day,And a wind blew out of the West where I sat,And the birds were still!