It's fall now, but to me, it isn't really autumn until the first frosty morning, when the floor boards are like ice to my bare feet and a glaze of white frost tips each blade of grass on the yard. Below is my personal favorite autumn poem, A Vagabond Song, by William Bliss Carman. It's so beautifully visual.
A Vagabond Song
T HERE 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
5
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,
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When from every hill of flame
She calls and calls each vagabond by name.
- Wm Bliss Carman
Wm Bliss Carman (1861-1929)
