Thousands o’er the fields are tripping,—
O! watch them as they fall:
Go, eye them as they leave the tree,
All fluttering down reluctantly
Across the beams of Sol.
See ye the Sun—far down the west—
As he goes forth (as ’twere to rest),
And bids one half[82] “Good-night?” * * *
Well—tens of thousands go with him
Down o’er that bank with gilded brim;