This Time of Year

When the frost is on the grasses,
In the morning...I can see.
The drooping of the lilies,
That to me were very dear.

Like a sheet of shining silver,
Right there before my eyes.
I see my Tarra weeping,
That won for me a prize.

No longer is the cricket,
There upon the stone.
And the blue-birds circling gayly,
Have to other places flown.

The vine has stopped its growing,
And the ants have gone inside.
The blue-flowers on the veranda,
In foliage try to hide.

Oh...it takes so much consoling,
And the dropping of a tear.
When the frost comes to the grasses,
And its this time of the year.

E.P. 1908 - 1989