Voices of summer, I’ve listed long
For the witching strains of your matin song;
Through the woodland dim, o’er the rustling lawn,
I have sought you oft; but you’re gone—all gone?
No more do you start in your still retreat
At the thundering tramp of the horses’ feet,
Or the wandering note of the bugle horn;
But the woods are mute, for you’re gone—all gone!
’Mid the wild wood’s haunts, through your lonely nests,
The rude winds play, and the snow-wreath rests