High like skeletons grim
The trees hold up their arms;
The last leaf’s hurried from its limb
By the tempest’s wild alarms;
The river ripples gray and cold,
And autumn’s o’er like a story told.

Deep in the lonely wood
The leaves lie thickly strown;
The timorous rabbit finds him food,
The snow-bird seeks his own;
The cricket long has ceased his song,
For the breath of winter’s cold and strong.

Close to the level plain
The snow clings like a sheet;
The chimney moans as if in pain,
Lashed by the hissing sleet;
And all good men are glad to be
Where the Yule-log sparkles merrily.