"@3Nous n'irons plus au bois, Les lauriers sont coupes@1." Who'll go with me a-nutting, By ways we used to know; Where chestnut-trees in bounty Dropped opening burrs below? Who'll wander with me hill-ward, Through leaves of rustling brown, To find the hickory shell-barks In hundreds falling down? Who'll gather gold persimmon, By frost made sugar-sweet? Who'll find the winter-cherries And taste their amber meat? O bygone fleetfoot comrades Of halcyon long ago, "We'll go no more a-roving, The laurels are laid low." |