I, FROM my chamber-window, mark
The dying of the year;
The trees in red and green and gold,
Show Autumn's progress sere;
And soon, alas! these richest tints
Will change to sober brown;
The trees of their bright garb bereft,
Wear winter's sternest frown.
The warbling songster seeks in vain
Some place to shield his wings,
And shivering on the bare cold oak,
In piteous notes he sings.
The flowerets hide their frail bright heads
Till winter shall be o'er,
Then at the first faint call of Spring,
They show themselves once more.
The autumn rain is falling slow,
With chilling, solemn spell,
As if no brightness ever more
On this bleak earth shall dwell.
The dying of the day or year
With awe impress the mind;
For though we know God's ways are right,
His mercies ever kind,--
We mortals seldom stop to think,
When brooding o'er the night,
How quickly day will dawn again,
And Spring again bloom bright;
And at the end of life's short path
The aged should remember,
Eternal Spring-time dawneth bright
Soon after bleak December.