Though blackbird’s song is hushed, his eye’s still bright,
Searching through dead leaves while lasts the light,
The wind blows brusque and sharper every day,
No ruffled feathers keep the cold away.
Ripe fruit falls and bruises on the ground,
Too late for wasps, leaf fall the only sound.
From summer-weary birch tree boughs I hear
The robin’s song of notes, as sharp and clear
As icy water trickling in a rill,
As starlight glittering on a snowy hill,
Reminding me, sure as night fades at dawn,
That this sweet summer too is almost gone.