The year's grown songless! No glad pipings thrill br The hedge-row elms, whose wind-worn branches shower br Their leaves on the sere grass, where some late flower br In golden chalice hoards the sunlight still. br Our summer guests, whose raptures used to fill br Each apple-blossomed garth and honeyed bower, br Have in adversity's inclement hour br Abandoned us to bleak November's chill. br br But hearken! Yonder russet bird among br The crimson clusters of the homely thorn br Still bubbles o'er with little rills of song-- br A blending of sweet hope and resignation: br Even so, when life of love and youth is shorn, br One friend becomes its last, best consolation.