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Sun that sheds rich mellow beams;
Misty hills with golden gleams;
Ripe red fruit in emerald hung;
Empty nests where birdlings swung;
Trailing vines with crimson leaves;
Silence now beneath the eaves,
Where swallows sung from morn till night
A summer song of sweet delight.


Brown nuts scattered o'er the ground;
And now and then a rustling sound
Tells that a squirrel up aloft
Has dropped a nut he has nibbled oft,
For here upon its hardy shell
We see the print we know full well
Was made by squirrel's little tooth,--
Made by him all in vain, forsooth.


This dark, rich moss upon the tree
Is dark and rich as moss may be,
And to the touch it velvet is,
So soft, so fine and silky, 'tis.
Warm coat it makes for sturdy Oak,
To shield his heart from winter's stroke,
And hard it seems to use the knife;
But we with mischief now are rife.


Bright leaves we gather one by one,
Like gems beneath a tropic sun.
Golden brown with specks of red,
Scarlet leaves by sumac shed,
Green with amber shades of light,
Maple-leaves all golden bright,--
They'd make a crown so rich and rare,
It would do for any king to wear.


The sun declines towards the hill,
And sheds his rays upon the mill,
Embedded soft in verdure light,
Reflected in the water bright,
As real landscape was below,
With real sunbeams all aglow;
While ripples circle here and there,
As leaflets drop from branches fair.