The Hickory Tree

O Golden Hickory leaves!The time has come when you must fallUpon the ground you once gave shade;Beneath the mold you decorate,The cricket and the lightning-bug will creepTo sleep the winter through;And soon through leafless boughs the snow will sift,And press you to the couch where many Autumns pastHave left their golden sheen;And then from caves and hollow trees,The chipmunk and the squirrel comeTo seek the nuts they lately hid;While overhead, on naked boughs,The crow will call his doleful note;Now from the glen, the woodsman’s ax is heardResounding through the dull crisp atmosphere;And all is dreary, save from up the woodland roadI hear the shout of childrenTripping home from school.

Yet wait a while, for in a few more fleeting weeks,The howling winds of MarchWill wake all sleeping things.