On swift, resounding wing:
The woodland wears a look forlorn,
Hushed is the wild bee’s tiny horn.
The cricket’s bugle shrill—
Sadly is Autumn’s mantle torn,
But fair to vision still.
Bright flowers yet linger—from the morn
Yon Cardinal hath caught its blush,
And yellow, star-shaped gems adorn
The wild witch-hazel bush;