THE rust is over the red of the clover, 

The green is under the gray, 

And down the hollow the fleet-winged swallow 

Is flying away and away.

Fled are the roses, dead are the roses,

The glow and the glory done, 

And down the hollow the steel-winged swallow

Flying the way o' the sun.

In place of the summer, a dread new-comer

His solemn state renews; 

A crimson splendor instead of the tender

Daisy, and darling dews.

But oh, the sweetness, the full completeness,

That under his reign are born! 

Russet and yellow in apples mellow,

And wheat, and millet, and corn.

His frosts so hoary touch with glory

Maple and oak and thorn; 

And rising and falling, his winds are calling,

Like a hunter through his horn.

No thrifty sower, but just a mower, 

That comes when the day is done, 

With warmth a-beaming and gold a-gleaming, 

Like sunset after the sun.

And while fair weather and frosts together

Color the woods so gay, 

We must remember that chill December

Has turned his steps this way;

And say, as we gather the house together

And pile the logs on the hearth, 

Help us to follow the light little swallow

E'en to the ends of the earth.

 Alice Cary.