Sad October's mournful song
Rolls the woodland aisles along,
And her hand sweeps o'er the keys
Of the organ mid the trees--
Waving trees.
Leaflets falling one by one,
Tell the frost-king's work begun;
And the swaying, wind-kissed grass
Withered as his footsteps passed--
Swiftly passed.
Summer's "upper deep" of blue
Changed to Autumn's shifting hue;
Painted clouds go floating fast,
Each more fleeting than the last--
Fading fast.
All the grove-choir, one by one,
Followed the receding sun;
As their temple's green grew dim,
Slowly died their sweet-voiced hymn--
Woodland hymn.
And the flowers, bright summer's pride,
And her offspring, too, have died;
When the mother fled the wild,
Left she there no orphan child--
Lonely child?
Now the grand old forest, too,
Has a robe of varied hue,
Golden tint and sober gray,
Gorgeous emblems of decay--
Sad decay.
Autumn's in the woods again,
Through its arches thrills her strain,
As she sweeps the quivering keys
Of the organ mid the trees--
Dying trees.
