The lark still hovers round its meadow nook,
And soars and sings as on a vernal morn.
The robin, too, is loth to quit the lawn
And visits yet his nest beneath the eaves;
I hear his cheering notes at early dawn—
To part with these old friends my spirit grieves.
But soon these feathered songsters must away,
Ere winter's frosts shall chill them thro' and thro';
In other lands they find the summer day,
The opening flower, and the refreshing dew.