Where is the pride of Summer,—the green prime—
The many, many leaves all twinkling?—There
On the moss'd elm; three on the naked lime
Trembling,—and one upon the old oak tree!
Where is the Dryad's immortality?
Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew,
Or wearing the long, gloomy winter through
In the smooth holly's green eternity.
The squirrel gloats on his accomplished hoard,
The Ants have trimm'd their garners with ripe grain,