Who knows if summer comes again
Whose years have totaled eighty-three
The haunting days of fall are nigh
And evenings soon are cool and dark.

My window faces west and I
Look out upon the old oak tree
Whose leaves are falling brown and sere,
Baring branches white and stark.

A far-off whistle now I hear,
A lonesome sound of passing train.
The room is hushed and here I lie
And wonder where I next will be.