The corn-flower and the marguerite; and no more

Across the river's shadow-haunted floor

The paths of skimming swallows interlace.

Already in the outland wilderness

The forests echo with unwonted dins;

In clamorous gangs the gathering woodmen press

Northward, and the stern winter's toil begins.

Around the long low shanties, whose rough lines

Break the sealed dreams of many an unnamed lake,

Already in the frost-clear morns awake