When the grey lake-water rushesPast the dripping alder-bushes, And the bodeful autumn windIn the fir-tree weeps and hushes, --
When the air is sharply dampRound the solitary camp, And the moose-bush in the thicketGlimmers like a scarlet lamp, --
When the birches twinkle yellow,And the cornel bunches mellow, And the owl across the twilightTrumpets to his downy fellow, --
When the nut-fed chipmunks rompThrough the maples' crimson pomp, And the slim viburnum flushesIn the darkness of the swamp, --
When the blueberries are dead,When the rowan clusters red, And the shy bear, summer-sleekened,In the bracken makes his bed, --
On a day there comes once moreTo the latched and lonely door, Down the wood-road striding silent,One who has been here before.
Green spruce branches for his head,Here he makes his simple bed, Crouching with the sun, and risingWhen the dawn is frosty red.
All day long he wanders wideWith the grey moss for his guide, And his lonely axe-stroke startlesThe expectant forest-side.
Toward the quiet close of dayBack to camp he takes his way, And about his sober footstepsUnafraid the squirrels play.
On his roof the red leaf falls,At his door the bluejay calls, And he hears the wood-mice hurryUp and down his rough log walls;
Hears the laughter of the loonThrill the dying afternoon; Hears the calling of the mooseEcho to the early moon.
And he hears the partridge drumming,The belated hornet humming, -- All the faint, prophetic soundsThat foretell the winter's coming.
And the wind about his eavesThrough the chilly night-wet grieves, And the earth's dumb patience fills him,Fellow to the falling leaves.
