  November? 'tis a summer's day! For tropic airs are blowing As soft as whispered roundelay From unseen lips that seem to say To feathered songsters going To sunnier, southern climes afar, "Stay where you are—stay where you are!" And other tokens glad as these Declare that Summer lingers: Round latent buds still hum the bees, Slow fades the green from forest trees Ere Autumn's artist fingers Have touched the landscape, and instead Brought out the amber, brown, and red. His favorite recreation, Gay, romping girl, unfettered boy In outdoor sports the time employ, And happy consummation Of prudent plans the farmer know Ere wintry breezes round him blow. And they by poverty controlled— Good fortune shall betide them As scenes of beauty they behold, And seem to revel in the gold Which Plutus has denied them; For, ah! the poor from want's despair Oft covet wealth they never share. |
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