In Season of the Fall


Over the hill the chilly wind does blow,
And leaves do fall down from the ancient trees.
I hear the distant calls of hungry crows.
No more will flowers host the swarms of bees.

The beasts in fields and wood begin their sleep
To find escape from biting wind so cool,
And while these animals are counting sheep,
The sheep are growing in their coats of wool.

Although the world does seem to die away,
And shorter days begin to drive me mad,
I think of holidays yet on the way,
And do not feel as lowly and feel glad.

The hibernation of green life does call.
This all begins in season of the Fall.

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