  When the gray lake-water rushes Past the dripping alder bushes, And the bodeful autumn wind In the fir-tree weeps and hushes,— When the air is sharply damp Round the solitary camp, And the moose-bush in the thicket Glimmers like a scarlet lamp,— When the birches twinkle yellow, And the cornel bunches mellow, And the owl across the twilight Trumpets to his downy fellow,— When the nut-fed chipmunks romp Through the maples’ crimson pomp, And the slim viburnum flushes In the darkness of the swamp,— When the blueberries are dead, When the rowan clusters red, And the shy bear, summer-sleekened, In the bracken makes his bed,— On a day there comes once more To the latched and lonely door, Down the wood-road striding silent, One who has been here before. Green spruce branches for his head, Here he makes his simple bed, Couching with the sun, and rising When the dawn is frosty red. All day long he wanders wide With the gray moss for his guide, And his lonely axe-stroke startles The expectant forest-side. Toward the quiet close of day Back to camp he takes his way, And about his sober footsteps Unafraid the squirrels play. On his roof the red leaf falls, At his door the blue-jay calls, And he hears the wood-mice hurry Up and down his rough log walls; Hears the laughter of the loon Thrill the dying afternoon,— Hears the calling of the moose Echo to the early moon. And he hears the partridge drumming, The belated hornet humming,— All the faint, prophetic sounds That foretell the winter’s coming. And the wind about his eaves Through the chilly night-wet grieves, And the earth’s dumb patience fills him, |
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