The morns are growing misty, the nights are turning cold,
The linden leaves are falling like a shower of gold;
And over where my heart is, beneath the southern sun,
The shearing's nearly over and the spring's begun.
The crying flocks are driven to feed in peace again,
They stream and spread and scatter on the smooth green plain.
And in the sky above them the soft spring breezes keep
A flock of clouds as snowy as the new-shorn sheep.
Now later comes the sunshine and sooner comes the dark,
The barefoot newsboys shiver, the ladies in the Park