Now, when the summer flowers are past and dead,
And, from the earth's wild bosom, brown and bare,
No trillium lifts its head;
When, in the hollows where the violets were
Purple and white and fair,
Only a few brown leaves are falling now,
The wind shakes from the bough:
Now, when the tiger-lily's flame no more
Burns in the long, lush grasses on the hill,
And, by the river shore,
The smoky trail of asters, lingering still,
Thins, and the air grows chill
With the first feathery snowflakes, that anon
Fall softly and are gone:
O let us leave this dull and dusty street,
The noise and heat and turmoil of the town
For country waysides sweet,
Lanes where the nuts are clustering, plump and brown,
Hedges blackberries crown;
Come, ere the shivering blasts of winter blow,
Let us make haste and go.