A Vagabond Song

It�s fall now, but to me, it isn�t really autumn until the first frosty morning, when the floor boards are like ice to my bare feet and a glaze of white frost tips each blade of grass on the yard. Below is my personal favorite autumn poem, A Vagabond Song, by William Bliss Carman. It's so beautifully visual.

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	5
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,	10
When from every hill of flame
She calls and calls each vagabond by name. - Wm Bliss Carman Wm Bliss Carman (1861-1929)