The Journey Home Poem by David Mitchell

Now strolling towards the dimming west,
Towards the autumn sun, who rest
Is also seeking, so I walk
Along the roadside, and I talk
But to myself in silent thought
That comes unbidden and unsought;
And now I hear the traffic's hum,
That forms not all, but only some
Of what impinges on my sense,
For from atop a garden fence
I hear the song of the evening bird
As soothing as whene'er 'tis heard.
And as I went towards the sun
Now that his task was almost done,
I saw the melancholy leaves
Both dead and sere, though no one grieves
At autumn's slump of brown and yellow
Leaves; for the beauty of death is mellow.
I know not why, but, like a child,
I walk upon this foliage mild,
Enjoying the crispness of the rustle
Of crackling leaves that do not tussle:
For they cannot resist my tread
Which, to a leaf, is heavy as lead.
November wind bites through the air,
But I need not much farther fare;
And though 'tis cold and home I seek,
And evening turns to night more bleak,
I take my time till I arrive,
And I am glad to be alive.

And as I wander on this earth,
Think how soon death is reach'd from birth,
And know that though I now here roam,
I soon must take my journey home.