a fall song

　　by ellen robena field

　　golden and red trees

　　nod to the soft breeze,

　　as it whispers, "winter is near;"

　　and the brown nuts fall

　　at the wind's loud call,

　　for this is the fall of the year.

　　good-by, sweet flowers!

　　through bright summer hours

　　you have filled our hearts with cheer

　　we shall miss you so,

　　and yet you must go,

　　for this is the fall of the year.

　　now the days grow cold,

　　as the year grows old,

　　and the meadows are brown and sere;

　　brave robin redbreast

　　has gone from his nest,

　　for this is the fall of the year.

　　i do softly pray

　　at the close of day,

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