Come walk a mile with me--'Tis now October;
And yet the fields put forth fresh blades of green.
Lest the advancing days shall seem to sober,
And prophesy too plainly the unseen;
For Nature loves to lead us forward blindly,--
Giving a glory to the fading leaf!
Yet were it worse if, speaking less unkindly,
Nature should plainly tell us life is brief.
The flowers, too, are fading--and are dying,
The leaves are falling, and incessantly,
And on the hills great flocks of crows are crying,
And the blue-jays once more are calling me;
But Winter!--Winter soon, too soon, is coming,
For see!--see there,--the frost is on the grass!
And the wild-bee--I hear no more its humming
As once I did, wherever I might pass;
And robin--he is gone, and all the singing
Of all the sweet birds now no more I hear,
While the dry leaves, to barren branches clinging,
Full plainly speak the passing of the year.