October

 by Rose Fyleman
The summer is over,
The trees are all bare,
There's is mist in the garden
And frost in the air.
The meadows are empty
And gathered the sheaves-
But, isn't it lovely
Kicking up leaves.
John from the garden
Has taken the chairs;
It's dark in the evening
And cold on the stairs.
Winter is coming And everyone grieves-
But, isn't it lovely
Kicking up leaves.