Now is the Autumm of the Tree of Life;
Its leaves are shed upon the unthankful earth,
Wich lets them whirl, a prey to the winds’ strife,
Heartless to store them for the months of dearth.
Men close the door, and dress the cheerful hearth,
Self-trusting still; and in his comely gear
Of precept and of rite, a household Baal rear.
But I will out amid the sleet, and view
Each shrivelling stalk and silent-falling leaf.
Truth after truth, of choicest scent and hue,
Fades, and in fading stirs the Angel’s gfief.
Unanswer’d here; for she, once pattern chief
Of faith, muy Country, now gross hearted grown,
Waits but to burn the stem before her idol’s throne.
Cardinal John Newman