(no subject)
A Vagabond Song
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 yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time.
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.
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
~Bliss Carman
I know it's not even the end of summer, the maples are still sprouting seeds and aren't even thinking about changing colors yet, but I smell it around the corner, nonetheless. The soles of my feet are starting to itch, so I give you this poem.
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 yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time.
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.
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
~Bliss Carman
I know it's not even the end of summer, the maples are still sprouting seeds and aren't even thinking about changing colors yet, but I smell it around the corner, nonetheless. The soles of my feet are starting to itch, so I give you this poem.