IN the twilight of November,
When my fire is burning low,
And each faint and famished ember
Flickers with a dying glow,
Ah! how fondly I remember
Summer scenes that come and go!
Far away my fancy flying
Sees a spectral camp-fire shine;
From the deeps around me lying
Breathes the perfume of the pine;
And of every sound that's sighing
Speaks the spirit unto mine,
Till I hear the rushing river,
Singing birds, and sighing trees,
That with mellow murmur quiver
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