’Tis fall-the bright green hues are turned to gold,
And ev’n the mites that in summer were bold
Are hushed; their cries of life are hear’d no more.
The ant, the fruit of work laid by in store,
Is huddled and sleeps, content in some tree’s core.
The bird, once more sings his lullaby
To give his hunting grounds the last good-by.
It is the law of life-to spring, to bloom
And go to its salvation or its doom.