What know I of the fields of fall,
The autumn days beyond the town?
I do not hear the harvest-call,
I do not see the pastures brown;

The upland sloping to the down,
With corn-shocks leaning on the wall;
And golden ground-fruit shining through it all.

They tell me of the violet
Upon the hill, bare at the crest;
Of the autumnal primrose set
Deep where the banks protect it best;
Of summer fallow fields now drest
In green; of meadows deep and wet;
Ah! I have seen and I shall not forget!

Where stubble-fields give way to fern
In meadows where the water lies,
I 've seen the sharp-flamed sumac burn
And flash its fires before my eyes.
Faint pictures of the river rise
With blowing mist beyond the turn;
Of lean November forests bare and stern.

I once have seen; and all the kind
Stood round me in that happy year;
In one bright impulse of the mind
I was the centre of the sphere;
The spring and summer centred here
On autumn; winter stood behind
And beckoned, whispering in the smoky wind.