Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered leaves lie dead,
They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit’s tread,—
The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay,
And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day.
Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprung and stood,
In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?
Alas! they all are in their graves—the gentle race of flowers
Are lying in their lowly beds with the fair and good of ours;
The rain is falling where they lie—but the cold November rain
Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.