by Canadian poet Bliss Carman (1861 - 1929).
There is something in the autumn that is native to my blood--
Touch of manner, hint of mood;
And my heart is like a rhyme,
With the yellows and the purple and the crimson keeping time.
Photo Stan Ciszek
The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry
Of bugles going by.
And my lonely spirit thrills
To see the frosty asters like a smoke upon the hills.
Photo Elliot Teskey
There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir;
We must rise and follow her,
When from every hill of flame
She calls and calls each vagabond by name.
Photo Jack A. Napes