  THE fires of Autumn are burning high; Bright the trees in the woods are blazing— A wall of flame from the brilliant sky Down to the fields where the cattle are grazing. O the warm, warm end of the year! Even the shrubs their red hearts render; All the bushes are bright with cheer And the tamest vine has a touch of splendor. The fires of Autumn are burning low; Blow, ye winds, and cease not blowing! Blow the flames to a ruddier show, Heap the coals to a hotter glowing. Ah, the chill, chill end of the year! Naught is left but a few leaf flashes; White is the death stone, white and drear, Over a desolate world of ashes. |
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