There sounds a rustling in the standing corn;
There hangs a bright-cheeked apple on the bough;
And later lingers now the tardy morn,
And evening shadows gather sooner now.
One crimson branch flames 'mid the maple wood;
One red leaf hides amid the woodbine's green;
And clean-raked fields lie bare, where lately stood
The tawny grain amid the summer scene.
Blue gentians show 'mid meadow grasses sear,
And, from the stubble, shrill the crickets sing:
A requiescat o'er the falling year
All sounds seem sadly chorusing.
