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All these were happy meetings unto me—
The leaves, weeds, berries with their lively tints,
Pale flowers, and pleasant musings. But ere long
A dearer and more joyous form than all
Came hopping friskily about. 'Twas he,
The wintry warbler—poor Robin Red-breast,
As blithe and brisk, and merry as his wont,
Singing and chirrupping, as by my side
In kind companionship he skipped along,
Or flew from tree to tree. And as he sung,
Me thought his gay notes shaped themselves to sense—
Language like ours; and thus my fancy framed,
From his sweet music, unmelodious words.
Farewell to Autumn! She's passing away,
Silently, swiftly going—
She is shaking the last brown leaves from the spray,
And they fall on the earth, where the Sun's slant ray
Finds only damp moss growing.
Autumn is parting; mute and fast
Her few faint flowers are dying;
The noon of the year is gone and past,
And every moaning and muttering blast
The Summer's dirge is crying.
