Stern Time hath banished with a frown
The summer, now grown wan and old;
In grief the woodlands lay adown
Their crowns of gold.

No more the copses echo round
With stockdove's moan and woodwren's lay;
To gladden distant shores with sound
They wing their way.

The wild winds shudder thro' the trees,
Where late the redstart's carol rang;
The torn nests wanton with the breeze
Where sweet birds sang.

The sere, sad leaves, their glory done,
Fall from the bough to meet the wave;
The stream they shadowed from the sun
Gives them a grave.