The fading field-flower and the falling leaf.
No more allures the lovely glade or glen;
A nameless sorrow haunts the lonely shore;
The frosts have fallen on the hearts of men;
The little children seek the woods no more.
For Nature holds us surely as her own,
In sleet and snow, or under skies of blue;
From birth to death we share her mirth or moan,—
Forever to our faithful mother true.
Yet, in our loneliest hours, alike we feel