The dead leaves strew the forest walk,
And whither'd are the pale flowers;
The frost hangs blackening on the stalk,
The dew-drops fall in frozen showers.
Gone are the spring's green sprouting bowers,
Gone summer's rich and mantling vines,
And autumn, with her yellow hours,
On hill and plain no longer shines.

I learned a clear and wild-toned note,
That rose and swell'd from yonder tree-
A gay bird, with too sweet a throat,
There perch'd and rais'd her song for me.
The winter comes, and where is she?
Away-where summer wings will rove,
Where buds are fresh, and every tree
Is vocal with the notes of love.

Too mild the breath of southern sky,
Too fresh the flower that blushes there,
The northern breeze that rustles by
Finds leaves too green, and buds too fair;
No forest tree stands stripp'd and bare,
No stream beneath the ice is dead,
No mountain top, with sleety hair,
Bends o'er the snows its reverend head.

Go there, with all the birds, and seek
A happier clime, with livelier flight,
Kiss, with the sun, the evenings cheek,
And leave me lonely with the night.
I'll gaze upon the cold north light,
And mark where all its glories shone,-
See-that it all is fair and bright,
Feel-that it is all cold and gone.