Pale, dying year, thy re­qui­em tone
For vanished bright­ness, beau­ty gone,
Floats mourn­ful­ly o’er hill and dale.
And mingles with the mid­wind’s wail.
From thy worn heart there comes a sigh.
That like a spir­it-voice sweeps by;
And to the sad­dened heart doth tell,
In mourn­ful num­bers, thy fare­well.

Thy fare­well to the hours of spring,
The stream­let’s gen­tle whis­per­ing;
Thy robe of green and vio­let bloom,
Have found their birth place but a tomb;
The sum­mer’s glory is no more.
Its un­taught min­strel­sy is o’er.
And si­lence reigns in for­est aisles
Once proud­ly lit with Na­ture’s smiles.

Yet deep­er sounds thy requiem tone,
And sad­der wakes thy spir­it’s moan,
For thou hast wooed to dream­less rest.
To slum­ber on the earth’s cold breast.
Forms that have glad­dened home and hearth,
And made like hea­ven our dark­ened earth,
And sun­ny smiles, whose gleam­ing bright,
Seemed touched with hues of liv­ing light.

For the dear house­hold voices hushed.
Whose tones, like mu­sic mur­murs gushed;
For the lone home, the va­cant chair,
And bless­ings oft­en ut­tered there;
For steps of unreturning feet;
For wel­comes we no more will meet
From si­lent lips whose ten­der­ness
Came with a thrill­ing pow­er to bless.

Yea! sound for these thy sad­den­ing note,
For these let mourn­ful re­qui­ems float;
They come not back with Spring’s glad hours
They come not back with Sum­mer flow­ers.
They wake not from their qui­et sleep.
Though love its faith­ful vi­gils keep;
The sac­red tear, the heart­felt sigh,
Lifts no dark sha­dow from the eye.

Where years are num­bered ne­ver­more—
Where fleet­ing days and months are o’er—
Fixed in that high, eter­nal home,
Where Death’s dread sha­dow may not come,
Is the be­loved look and tone—
The gen­tle smile of old, our own;
That ra­di­ant land can ne­ver know,
Like thee, pale year, a re­qui­em low.

Frances B. M. Brotherson (1816–1879)