To sheltering hedge and wood patrol,
Where hips and haws for food suffice
That chumbled lie about the hole.
And squirrel, bobbing from the eye,
Is busy now about its hoard,
And in old nest of crow and pie
Its winter store is oft explored.
The leaves now leave the willows grey
And down the brook they wind:
So hopes and pleasures whirl away
And vanish from the mind.