Far up the brook, beyond the lin,
I hear the impatient bluejay's din,
While in the browning beech, nut-laden,
The chipmunk gathers his harvest in.
( Of all earth's trees exceeding fair,
Thee have I loved beyond compare,
Most human beech! and felt thy spirit
Tremble to mine in the dusky air. )
The year is rounding up its task,
And kingly gives to all that ask;
Ay, soon‘ twill move in pomp so royal
The world shall seem, but a heavenly mask!