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Cold blows the Autumn wind and drear,
From out the lowering west;
Low wail the crimson leaves and sere
As if they longed for rest.


Upon my heart they seem to fall,
And stay its joyful tone,
Awaking there a plaintive call--
The echo of their own.


O forest leaves, from yonder trees
Borne upon languid wing,
You hear not in the wandering breeze
The whisper of the Spring.


While far beyond the sky's dark cloud,
I know the stars shine clear,
And that beneath the Autumn shroud
Awaits the future year.