Hark to the low Wind's sighing

Hark, to the low winds sighing,Leaves rustle sad;In the vestments of the dying,Autumn is clad.Ye, who saw the summer-flowerBlooming in May,Now pause to ponder o'erNature's decay.

Heard ye the sad brook creeping,Mournful along?'Twas the voice of nature weepingSummer's last song!Hear ye the sad winds swellingSlow, like a knell?'Tis the voice of nature tellingAutumn's farewell!

Sorrow comes with face unsmiling—Turn ye away!Hope, with airy song beguiling—List to her lay!In its tones there's bliss elating,Shall it be forgot?Misery is anticipatingGriefs which are not.

Though decay and constant sorrowLife's bloom destroy,Hope sees in the wished-for morrowSomething of joy.And though the summer-flowersStill we must mourn,Nature whispers, they are ours—Spring shall return!