And—where the late witch-hazels burn—
The squirrel from a chuckling throat
Tells that one larder’s space is filled,
And tilts upon a towering tree;
And, valiant, quick, and keenly thrilled,
Upstarts the tiny chickadee;
When the sun’s still shortening arc
Too soon night’s shadows dun and gray
Brings on, and fields are drear and dark,
And summer birds have flown away,—