HE door-yard trees put on their autumn bloom, Purple and gold and crimson rich and strong, That stain the light, and give my lonesome room An atmosphere of sunset all day long:
In giddy whirls the yellow elm-leaves fall, The rifled cherry-boughs grow sere and thinned, Yet still the morning-glories on the wall Fling out their purple trumpets to the wind,—
So full but now of summer's triumph-notes, The moth's soft wing their powdery stamens stirred, The bees rich murmur filled their honeyed throats, And the quick thrilling of the humming-bird.
In the long dreary nights of storm I hear The windy woodbine beat against the pane, Trembling and shuddering with cold and fear, Like one who seeks a shelter all in vain.
The sobbing rain deplores the sad decline Of all which erst was fair and sweet and young, The tender fingers of the clambering vine Are bruised against the trellis where they clung.
Thus is my world dismantled, cold and bare; The winter threatens, lowering and drear;— Where are the pattering feet, the shining hair, The eyes which made it always summer here?
HE door-yard trees put on their autumn bloom, 
HE door-yard trees put on their autumn bloom, 