Summer fading, winter comes—Frosty morning, tingling thumbs,Window robins, winter rooks,And the picture storybooks.
Water now is turned to stoneFather and I walk upon;Still we find the flowing brooksIn the picture storybooks.
All the pretty things put by,Wait upon the children’s eye,Sheep and shepherds, trees and crooks,In the picture storybooks.
We may see how all things are,Seas and cities, near and far,And the flying fairies’ looks,In the picture storybooks.…