A Lyric of Autumn
William Stanley Braithwaite

There is music in the meadows, in the air — Autumn is here; Skies are gray, but hearts are mellow, Leaves are crimson, brown, and yellow; Pines are soughing, birches stir, And the Gipsy trail is fresh beneath the fir. There is rhythm in the woods, and in the fields, Nature yields: And the harvest voices crying, Blend with Autumn zephyrs sighing; Tone and color, frost and fire, Wings the nocturne Nature plays upon her lyre.