Autumn

The dry leaves are falling;
The cold breeze above
Has stript of its glories
The sorrowing grove.

The hills are all weeping,
The field is a waste,
The songs of the forest
Are silent and past:

And the songsters are vanished;
In armies they fly
To a clime more benignant,
A friendlier sky.

The thick mists are veiling
The valley in white;
With the smoke of the village
They blend in their flight.

And lo! on the mountain
The wanderer stands,
And sees the pale autumn
Pervading the lands.

Thou sorrowful wanderer.
Sigh not--nor weep!
For nature, though shrouded,
Will wake from her sleep.

The spring, proudly smiling,
Shall all things revive;
And gay bridal-garments
Of splendor shall give.

But man’s chilling winter
Is darksome and dim;
For no second spring-tide
E’er dawns upon him.

The gloom of his evening,
Time dissipates never:
His sun when departed
Is vanisht for ever.