ANOTHER year has gone its round,

  The summer's growing old;

October days their wealth have found

In autumn's brown and gold.

The chill winds whistle through the trees,

And tell of winter's blast;

And now a shower of gorgeous leaves

Is falling, tailing fast.  

The wheat is safely garnered In,

The apples all are stored;

And merry voices they that ring

Around the festal board.

Their work is done, the labor o'er,

The harvest too is past;

The workman's worthy of his hire,

And he may rest at last.

Then welcome, sweet October days,

Though summer flee with thee;

She dons her brightest robe and ways

To say good-by to me.