THE hills are bright with maples yet;

But down the level land

The beeches rustle in the wind

As dry and brown as sand.


The clouds in bars of rusty red

Along the hill-tops glow,

And in the still, sharp air, the frost

Is like a dream of snow.


The berries of the brier-rose

Have lost their rounded pride;

The bitter-sweet chrysanthemums

Are dropping heavy-eyed.


The cricket grows more friendly now,

The dormouse sly and wise,

Hiding away in the disgrace

Of nature, from men's eyes.


The pigeons, in black, wavering lines,

Are swinging toward the sun;

And all the wide and withered fields

Proclaim the summer done.


His store of nuts and acorns now

The squirrel hasten to gain,

And sets his house in order for

The winter's dreary reign.

'T is time to light the evening fire,

To read good books, to sing

The low and lovely songs that breathe

Of the eternal spring.



Alice Cary.