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 smoke upon the hills.
There is something in October sets the gipsy blood
We must rise and follow her,
When from every hill of flame
She calls and calls each vagabond by name.