Scarlet dogwood berries bring The lingering thrushes. But they sing No more. Sumac, like a fire, Lights the hillside. But the brook Has a sad, untidy look; Matted water-cress lies low, Flowers are gone and chill winds blow; Leaves on every side expire. But the maples flaunt their pride, And the oak trees, far and wide; Till the brook renews its stride, Encouraged by the bracing air To hurry on, that it may share In the pageant everywhere. |