Golden and red trees Nod to the soft breeze, As it whispers, "Winter is near;" And the brown nuts fall At the wind's loud call, For this is the Fall of the year.
Good-by, sweet flowers! Through bright Summer hours You have filled our hearts with cheer We shall miss you so, And yet you must go, For this is the Fall of the year.
Now the days grow cold, As the year grows old, And the meadows are brown and sere; Brave robin redbreast Has gone from his nest, For this is the Fall of the year.
I do softly pray At the close of day, That the little children, so dear, May as purely grow As the fleecy snow That follows the Fall of the year.
