Staunton Spectator

They are falling, slowly falling.
Thick upon the forest side—
Severed from the noble branches
Where they waved in beauteous pride.
They are falling in the valleys
Where the early violets spring,
And the birds in early spring-time
First their dulcet music ring.
They are falling, sadly falling,
Close beside our cottage door—
Pale and faded, like the loved ones
That have gone forevermore.
They are falling, and the sunbeams
Shine in beauty, soft around;
Yet the faded leaves are falling—
Falling on the grassy mound.
They are falling on the streamlet
Where the silvery waters flow,
And upon its placid bosom
Onward with the waters go.
They are falling in the churchyard
Where our kindred sweetly sleep
Where the idle winds of summer
Softly o'er the loved ones sweep.
They are falling, ever falling,
When the autumn breezes sigh—
When the stars in beauty glisten
Bright upon the midnight sky.
They are falling when the tempest
Moans like Ocean's hollow roar—
When the homeless winds and billows
Sadly sigh forevermore.
They are falling, they are falling,
While our saddened thoughts still
To the sunny days of childhood,
In the dreary long ago.
And the faded hues remind us
Of the blighted hopes and dreams
Faded like the falling leaflets
Cast upon the icy stream.