Or, at least one of them.
Thought I'd share this today with you:
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 the lonely spirit thrills
to see the frosty asters
like 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.
Every great mistake has a halfway moment, a split second, when it can be recalled and perhaps remedied. --Pearl S. Buck