The Summer Joys Are Fleeting Fast

Autumn Days
Henry Reed Conant
1893

The summer joys are fleeting fast
From forest, field and glen,
And soon shall winter’s piercing blast
Sweep o’er the earth again.

How lovely were the bright spring flow’rs,
That decked the landscape o’er;
But now we see, on fields and bow’rs,
Their dainty forms no more.

The leaves are falling in the wind,
From many a lofty height,
And birds are calling to their kind,
Upon their farewell flight.

But still, how cheering is the thought,
When other joys have flown;
That the little snow-bird leaves us not,
But chirps till winter’s gone.