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
