The russet field, the leafless tree,
The wood so still and lone,
The night which darkens o'er the lea
Ere noon is scarcely gone,

The dead leaves drifting here and there,
Once young and fresh were they—
Aye, autumn 'tis which chills the air,
And clips the wings of day.

The dead leaves rustling under foot,
As through the grove I pass—
It seems but yesterday they put
Their green buds forth, alas.

It seems but yesterday since spring
Clothed field and wood with green,
And everywhere the birds did sing,
And budding life was seen.

Then April waved his magic wand,
And blossomed beauteous May.
November now stalks o'er the land,
And sombre is the day.

Gone is the golden summer time,
So beautiful to see,
The sun within another clime
Now wakes the sleeping lea.

Soon fly the winds of winter forth,
On pinions dark they go
Soon comes the tempest from the north,
And falls the eddying snow.