They wait, the forest monarchs tall,
In naked beauty on the hills,
Until the snows of Winter fall,
And icy arms embrace the rills.

The golden glory of the days,
When Indian Summer fills the land,
Descends in gleams and dreamful haze,
Like blessings from the Lord's right hand.

No matin call of tardy bird,
Long stayed by sunshine in the north,
Above the fluttering clouds is heard.
A moment's pause, then bursting forth
In all the glorious sweets of song
That thrill from soul to soul aflame,
And die the barren hills among
From whence the summer carols came.

All day the leafless monarchs wave
Their hoary branches high in air,
And white-winged spirits guard the grave
Where late they laid the Autumn fair.

A sterner nature marks the land,
The soft blue airs of spring-time sleep,
The Summer trips it, hand in hand,
With Autumn o'er the distant deep.

Where lift the dim, perpetual isles
Their purple ensigns of the youth
That ever dimples, romps and smiles
Beyond the wrinkled pale of ruth.

And deep within the wooded lane
The oak and pine, in plaintive call,
Unto the wintry tide complain,
As leaves and brown nuts constant fall.

They wait their crowns, the naked kings!
And down the avenues of night
The frosty god, December, brings
Them glistening diadems of white.

White petals of the virgin snow,
With sprigs of ivy here and there,
They deck the forest monarch's brow,
While breezes whistle through his hair.

A sterner nature marks the soul,
Men's lips draw near the cup of life,
They wait to hear the centuries' roll
That bring the kingly crowns of strife.

The spring-time months and summer years
Beside the Autumn days are laid,
Beneath the grave of conquered fears,
Beneath the sloping hill-side's shade.

And deeper joy, serener faith,
Spring forth the golden crowns to grasp,
While death, the monarch, gently lay'th
Upon their brows a kinglier clasp.

They wait no more the golden crown;
Men, trees, the careless days of strife,
Drift onward to the far, sweet town,-
God's kingdom of eternal life.