Page:Writings of Henry David Thoreau (1906) v5.djvu/450

408 Behold! the shadows of the trees

Now circle wider 'bout their stem,

Like sentries that by slow degrees

Perform their rounds, gently protecting them.

And as the year doth decline,

The sun allows a scantier light;

Behind each needle of the pine

There lurks a small auxiliar to the night.

I hear the cricket's slumbrous lay

Around, beneath me, and on high;

It rocks the night, it soothes the day,

And everywhere is Nature's lullaby.

But most he chirps beneath the sod,

When he has made his winter bed;

His creak grown fainter but more broad,

A film of autumn o'er the summer spread.

Small birds, in fleets migrating by,

Now beat across some meadow's bay,

And as they tack and veer on high,

With faint and hurried click beguile the way.

Far in the woods, these golden days,

Some leaf obeys its Maker's call;

And through their hollow aisles it plays

With delicate touch the prelude of the Fall.

Gently withdrawing from its stem,

It lightly lays itself along