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,