Sunday, October 02, 2016

Sunday Morning Peace


A Vagabond Song
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 smoky 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 Camen


Melissa Henderson said...

Wonder what she is thinking? :-)

Caroline said...

I know, Melissa! Love the poem and pic!

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