Slow, but sure, the enemy comes,
His breath we may almost feel,
And the flowers of earth must yield their lives
'Neath the tread of his frosty heel.
The flower-queen from her throne has stepped,
And bowed her stately head,
And the leaves of Autumn have fallen fast,
To cover the lovely dead.
Over the skies a cloud is cast,
And the breeze is sharp and cold,
And the landscape pining for summer friends,
Grows sad, and wrinkled, and old.
Ah! drear November, make short thy reign,
And take thyself away;
Better we like--if Summer must die--
The jolly king Winter's sway.