When Autumn dismantles the trees, Love,
’Tis dying they seem to be;
And a pitiful tale the breeze, Love,
Whispers to you and me.
But the strength in the trees remains, Love —
’Tis the leaves that are altered alone;
And the life is as full in their veins, Love,
As sad is the low wind’s moan.
And so will my love live for you, Love:
Though time many changes may bring,
No changes can make me untrue, Love:
Love’s Autumn shall tell me of Spring.
And O! when the Autumn is past, Love,
When Winter shall come with its cold,
Though death may be near — till the last, Love,
I will love as I loved you of old.
William Blocksidge, Songs o’ the South, London: Watts, 1908, p. 28-29
’tis = (archaic) a contraction of “it is”