Robed in silence and quiet, with muffled steps comes the night,
From the low’ring hills to the eastward, with her thousand eyes alight.
O’er the frost-touched meadows rises, the blood-red harvest moon.
Where once the herons gathered, now screams the diving loon.
In a hedge-row by the house wall, to which the vines still cling,
On a mat of withered rose-leaves, the last of the crickets sing.
They mourn the departed summer, that golden prime of the year,
When the world’s a world of flowers and every petal is dear;
When the heads of waving grasses brown and curl in the sun,
When streams of amber life-blood down the pines and birches run;
When the scent of roses blooming, wafted on the evening air,
Seems one piercing poignant beauty, more than human heart can bear.
But its reign is ended, it is gone, that season of the sun,
And hear! Their song is changing now, the eulogy of summer’s done.
Now their song is one of autumn, when the drone of bees is stilled;
When, with golden, flowing treasurers, farmers’ barns are filled.
When, of evenings, young and old, gathered ’round the open fire
Telling tales, watch the flames leap high and ever higher.
When (they say) at the witching hour, ghosts and goblins walk
And the pumpkin, demon haunted, dances on its withered stalk.
When the elfin king is dancing, by the red light of the moon,
While his subjects, ’round him gathered, hum a ghostly, elfin tune .mw-parser-output .nowrap,.mw-parser-output .nowrap a:before,.mw-parser-output .nowrap .selflink:before{white-space:nowrap}. . .
But lo, the day is dawning, with bold strides now comes the sun;
Night has fled, the day is here, and the crickets’ song is done.
.mw-parser-output .wst-floatright{float:right;text-indent:0}Chas. Heitzman, ’27.