As the gentle cradle rocks

As the gentle cradle rocks,

the Autumn’s leaves fall down;

side to side, her golden locks

rock softly to the ground.

When they grow as bright as fire;

they spill in golden heaps;

just like little eyes that, tired,

fall gently into sleep.

Then the infant head of earth

on white snow pillows lies

till it wakes with Springs rebirth;

the sun’s smile in its eyes.