THERE'’S silence in the harvest field,

And blackness in the mountain glen,

And clouds that will not pass away

From the hill tops for many a day,

And stillness around the homes of men.

The old tree hath an older look,

The lonesome place is yet more dreary;

They go not now, the young and old,

Slow wandering by on wood and wold.

The air is damp, the winds are cold,

And summer paths are wet and weary.

The drooping year is in the wane,

No longer floats the thistledown;

The crimson heath is wan and sear,

The sedge hangs withering by the mere,

And the broad fern is rent and brown.

The owl sits huddling by himself,

The cold has pierced his body through;

The patient cattle hang their head,

The deer are 'neath their winter shed,

The ruddy squirrel's in his bed,

And each small thing within its burrow..

One silent night hath passed, and lot

How beautiful the earth is now;

All aspect of decay is gone,

The hills have put their vesture on,

And clothed is the forest bough.

Silent, not sad, the scene appeareth,

And Fancy, like a vagrant breeze, -

Ready a-wing for flight doth go

To the cold northern land of snow,

Beyond the icy Orcades.



Mary Howitt.