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!