Summer wanes the children are grownFun and frolic no more he knows. . . .
Summer wanes the children are grownFun and frolic no more he knows. . . .
Ere, in the northern gale, The summer tresses of the trees are gone, The woods of Autumn, all around our vale, Have put their glory on.
We plant, upon the sunny lea,A shadow for the noontide hour,A shelter from the summer shower,When we plant the apple-tree.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories