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.
by BLISS CARMAN (WILLIAM) (1861-1929)
Public Domain Poetry
a slip of flame wags like a red-tailed fox
o’er candlewick sill in the moonlight box
sets ghost birds aflight in lucent flocks
o’er vespertine forest and druidic rocks
the road yonder runs thither throughout the ages
its footprints tell the story of hatchling sages
from trees bedangled with their birthing cages
open, in spirals, zig-zagging in stages
no questions, no answers, just a mystery play
of knotted roots, weaved wood and branching splay
and the thin, shrill cry of a sleepless jay
from dusk covered verdure and vertebrae
by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2021