The flowers are dead, the regal, fragrant flowers;
And fled the blithesome robins whose sweet song
From early morn made glad the fleeting hours,
When sunlit days were long.

The sable crow wings slowly o'er the hill,
His harsh call sounding through the frosty air;
The meadow sweeps are brown-clad now, and chill;
The trees are gaunt and bare.

The barn-fowls cluster where the low-hung sun
Makes the earth warm beneath the slanting eaves;
The roadway paths are russet-robed and dun,—
Thick-strewn with fallen leaves.

The sky is gray, the sunlight falls across
The distant mountains, thin, and white, and cold,
Not radiant beams, that forest ways emboss
With shifting flecks of gold.

Amid the orchards harsh winds come and go,
And wild and high the songs they roughly sing;
And smitten with the chill of coming snow,
The trees stand shivering.

Sharp ring the axe-blows on the mountain side,
And thundering falls the tall and sturdy oak;
Soon will its form flame on the hearthstone wide,
And fade away in smoke.

No more the buckwheat blooms bend in the breeze,
No more the clover blossoms lowly sway,
No more we hear the honey-ladened bees,
Boom on their homeward way.

No lowing kine in upland pastures stand,
When evening's gold shows the faint gleam of stars,
Patiently waiting for some friendly hand
To open wide the bars.

The storm wind flings its banners up the sky,
And rushing from the Northland's realm of snow,
Its tempest-notes where great woods tower high,
To louder murmurs grow.

Where late we met October's sunny smiles,
By yonder flowing river's silver gleam,
Along the hill and through the forest aisles,
November's garments stream.