How the dainty bee,
Stilling his gauze-winged melodies
Into the lily's chalice dips.

I love the wind that unceasing roars,
While cringe the trees from its wrath in vain,
And the lightning-flash,
And the thunder-crash,
And skies, from whose Erebus depths outpours
In slanting drifts the autumnal rain.

You sigh to find that the time is here
When leaves are falling from bush and tree;
When the flowerets sweet
Die beneath our feet,
And feebly totters the dying year
Into the mists of eternity.

To me the autumn is never drear,
It bears the glory of hopes fulfilled.
Though the flowers be dead,
There are seeds instead,
That, with the spring of the dawning year,
With life will find all their being thrilled.

You tread the wood, and the wind behold
Tear down the leaves from the crackling bough
Till they make a pall,
As they thickly fall,
To hide dead flowers. The air seems cold,