When the feud of hot and cold

Leaves the autumn woodlands bare;

When the year is getting old,

And flowers are dead, and keen the air;

When the crow has new concern,

And early sounds his raucous note;

And—where the late witch-hazels burn—

The squirrel from a chuckling throat

Tells that one larder’s space is filled,

And tilts upon a towering tree;

And, valiant, quick, and keenly thrilled,

Upstarts the tiny chickadee;

When the sun’s still shortening arc

Too soon night’s shadows dun and gray

Brings on, and fields are drear and dark,

And summer birds have flown away,—

I feel the year’s slow-beating heart,

The sky’s chill prophecy I know;

And welcome the consummate art

Which weaves this spotless shroud of snow!

—Joel Benton, in “Songs of Nature.”