In the red and the tang of the berry,
The bronze of the leaf.
Chestnuts are ripe on the bough,
And the burrs all are bursting;
For a tramp with you, John, I vow!
I am hungering and thirsting.
Come, John, or you'll be to blame;
The birds wait your biding.
One of them, hearing your name,
Flashed forth from its hiding;—
See, it is searching for you—
Its pretty head cocking;
Pecking, and looking askew,
On the bare bough rocking.
And yonder a stray wing flitters;
A great hawk soars;
The lakelet gleams and glitters;
The high wind roars.
Nearer, from field and thicket,
Come musical calls;
The tinkling, clear note of the cricket,
Chime of ripples and falls.
From the meadow far up to the hight
The leaves all are turning;
By the time you have come to the sight
The world will be blazing and burning.
John of Birds, tarry not till
The first wild snow-flurry;
Voices of forest and hill
Cry hurry, O hurry!
