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This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths...
Walt Whitman

Now it is autumn and the falling fruit
And the long journey towards oblivion.

The apples falling like great drops of dew
To bruise themselves an exit from themselves.

And it is time to go, to bid farewell
To one's self, and find an exit
from the fallen self.

II...

III
And can a man his own quietus make
with a bare bodkin?

D. H. Lawrence.