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 crimson keeping time.
Touch of manner, hint of mood;
And my heart is like a rhyme,
With the yellow and 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
Chrystal Houston | 01-Oct-08 at 9:42 am | Permalink
Thanks for this. Love it, and your poem, too. Boy, I wish I was in a place that had autumn.