A Vagabond Song
Maple Tree in red, 2009 (detail). Photo by Common-Pics. Licensed under Creative Commons, courtesy Wikimedia Commons
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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 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.
This poem is in the public domain