William Cullen Bryant

Ere, in the northern gale, The summer tresses of the trees are gone, The woods of Autumn, all around our vale, Have put their glory on.

All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom.

Loveliest of lovely things are they On earth that soonest pass away. The rose that lives its little hour Is prized beyond the sculptured flower.

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds and naked woods and meadows brown and sear.

Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings.

But 'neath yon crimson tree Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, Her blush of maiden shame.

Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste.

Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go; the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.

And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.

The stormy March has come at last, With winds and clouds and changing skies; I hear the rushing of the blast That through the snowy valley flies.