INDIAN PIPE. 



DEATH in the wood, 

 Death, and a scent of decay; 



Death, and a horror that creeps with the blood, 

 And stiffens the limbs to clay; 



For the rains are heavy and slow, 

 And the leaves are shrunken and wan, 



And the winds are sobbing weary and low, 

 And the life of the year is gone. 



Death in the wood, 

 Death in its fold over fold, 



Death, that I shuddered and sank where I 



stood, 

 At the touch of a hand so cold, 



At the touch of a hand so cold, 

 And the sight of a clay-white face, 



For I saw the corse of the friend I loved, 

 And a hush fell over the place. 



