There is something in the autumn that is native to my blood -- <br />Touch of manner, hint of mood; <br />And my heart is like a rhyme, <br />With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time. <br /> <br />The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry <br />Of bugles going by. <br />And my lonely spirit thrills <br />To see the frosty asters like a smoke upon the hills. <br /> <br />There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir; <br />We must rise and follow her, <br />When from every hill of flame <br />She calls and calls each vagabond by name.<br /><br />Bliss Carman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-vagabond-song/
