The goldenrod was aflame in the fields,With dew was the green grass wet;A faint blue haze hung over the hills,Where the earth and the sky lines met.And the green of the grass, and the gold of the fields,Where the grain in the summer stood,Were swathed in dreams that drifted slowOn the breath of the russet wood.
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Ah! then it was morning; now it is night,With a long, long day between;And the dreams that danced in the morning sunAre gone with its gladsome sheen.A flush of crimson, a dash of gold,In the far, far glittering west,And nearer, the curves of a silken wing,Where a lone bird flies to its nest.
A chill wind creeps from the russet wood,For the joyous sun is set;The grass so green is seared and pale,And with tears of the Night is wet.The bird is astir in its empty nest,While the dreary dark drifts down,And I list alone to the tread of the Night,In her trailing diaphanous gown.
