Vagabond Song
THERE is something in the autumn that is native to my blood—
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Touch of manner, hint of mood;
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And my heart is like a rhyme,
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With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time.
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The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry
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Of bugles going by.
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And my lonely spirit thrills
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To see the frosty asters like a smoke upon the hills.
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There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir;
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We must rise and follow her,
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When from every hill of flame
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She calls and calls each vagabond by name.
Bliss Carman. 1861–
Blessings!
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Sunday, October 07, 2012
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1 comment:
Lovely poem, lovely way to start the day.
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