When winds of November begin to bite,
And frost settles down on the hills at night,
The geese from the north come southward flying;
Their plaintive calls ring crying, crying:
Farewell to the corn-fields cut and dried
      That quietly wait for the falling snow,
Gleaned by the geese from far and wide
      That noisily on their way now go.

Warm though the rays of the autumn sun,
Crisp is the air when the day is done;
An arrow against the sunset, winging
Their way to the south and singing, singing:
Farewell to the maples red and gold,
      The oaks and the elms full of autumn fire;
The geese travel on when the year grows old,
      When wind-tossed leaves set the earth on fire.

Swift runs the deer through the bare brown brush;
The river sweeps by in a last great rush;
The geese have all gone, and the light is dying;
Brown fall the leaves now, sighing, sighing:
Farewell to the splendor of the year’s last days,
      For fall’s glorious twilight has come and gone;
The world will to sleep while Jack Frost plays,
      And wake from the dead at the break of dawn.