Oh, golden days with cloudless skies—

When forests flame with gorgeous dyes;

A touch of wine seems in the air,

Fields are brown—pastures bare.

Deep purple wraps the distant hills,

Gray shadows fall upon the rills;—

Thro’ rustling corn the zephyrs sigh,

In grief to see fair summer die.

These are days of Nature’s glory,

Sung in song, and told in story.

—J. Mayne Baltimore.