TURNING BROWN
The earth is turning brown, dear,
The earth is turning brown;
The birds, full-grown, have already flown,
And the leaves are whirling down.
There's no green grass in the lane, child,
There are no red berries in the wood;
The world is no longer at Spring, child,
It has chosen another mood.
The earth is turning brown;
The birds, full-grown, have already flown,
And the leaves are whirling down.
There's no green grass in the lane, child,
There are no red berries in the wood;
The world is no longer at Spring, child,
It has chosen another mood.
Yet think you Nature loves not as well
Her season of dumb repose?
Think you she misses the bluebird's swell,
The robin's trill, the thrush's thrill,
Or even the fragrant rose?
I trow she knows that the drifting snows
Are good for the dreaming flowers;
That Spring doth borrow a hint from the sorrow
Of these bare, brown Autumn hours.
Her season of dumb repose?
Think you she misses the bluebird's swell,
The robin's trill, the thrush's thrill,
Or even the fragrant rose?
I trow she knows that the drifting snows
Are good for the dreaming flowers;
That Spring doth borrow a hint from the sorrow
Of these bare, brown Autumn hours.
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