As a dove by an arrow stricken,
I should shrink from each waiting morn;
For more than the scent of roses,
The sting of the rose tree's thorn.
Now the shadows Lengthen early,
And the birds that with us stay,
Ill at ease and anxious seeming,
sing not as they do in May;
For the winds suggest the keenness
Of the winter days so nigh,
And the trees stand bare and lonely
As the leaves' drop off and die.
Now the squirrels are most busy,
Whisking here and leaping there;
Gleam their colors in the sunlight,
Sounds their chatter on the air;
And with busy feet and restless
Lay they up their winter store,
'Gainst the time when snow will cover
Sheltered wood and open moor.
Now the denseness of the forest
Lessens as the days speed by,
And, in search of game, the sportsman
Listens to the quail's lone cry.