"Closed Cottage"
Summer is gone. There's
frost in the air.
Branches of birch and maple are bare.
The ground is covered with golden leaves..
A lone crow calls and a cricket grieves.
Shutters are drawn- the camp fire is out,
Wraiths of summer whisper about.
Silent the scenes of past delight.
Turn of the season has come tonight.
White is the moon that climbs the hill.
Cottage and lake are dark and still...
Catherine Bryant Rowles