Crept over summer; and the fall
Of dry leaves, eddying thro’ the air,
Has left the tall trees brown and bare:
And more—at winter’s high behest,
The crisp fern waves a tattered crest
Above the stream, whose crystal pride
The river-screen was wont to hide.
But think not all are faithless! no,
Not all doth Summer yield her foe,
Tho’ Winter grasp each flower and vine—