When autumn flings her mantle o’er thy side
And tries with purple mist and haze to hide
The marks of death which daily work in thee,
I love to look again that I might see
How bravely and how gladly thou dost yield
While being stripped in meadow, wood, and field.
Responsive to the call to sacrifice
Thou givest all that in thy power lies.
Thy broad sides make an altar where are brought
Thy fruits and grain and all our hearts e’er sought.
A fire is kindled, and afar the blaze
Is seen to sweep thy fields and woods for days.
In mystic fire thou dost all fear disdain
So glorious in death—till naught remain
To trace where summer days with sun and song
And gentle winds had blest thee all day long.