The poem
The leaves are sick and jaundiced, they Drift down the air; December's sky is sodden grey, Dark with despair; A bleary dawn will light anon A world of care.
My name is cut into a stone, No care have I; The letters drool, as I alone Forgotten lie: With weed my grave is overgrown, None cometh nigh.
A hundred hollow years will speed As I decay; And I'll be comrade to the weed, Kin to the clay; Until some hind in homing-need Will pass my way.
Until some lover seeking hearth With joy will see My nameless stone sunk in the earth And it will be The ruddy birth of childish mirth, And elder glee.
And none will dream it bore my name Decades ago; A scribbling fool of little fame, Who loved life so . . . Well, flesh is grass and Time must pass,-- Heigh ho! Heigh ho!