The Lightning bugs are gone,
The Croakers croak no more.
Autumn frost upon us
Is surely Winter's shore.

Summer's heat is tempered
By night's increasing span.
North winds begin to blow
Lifting Geese in its hand.

Lament not Summer's end
Nor the coming cold, fear;
For life is but sleeping
'Neath Winter skies so clear.

Deeply breathe the colors,
Soon to lie on the grass.
Dread not tomorrow's dawn,
Seize it before its past.