IT's all a farce, — these tales they tell <br />About the breezes sighing, <br />And moans astir o'er field and dell, <br />Because the year is dying. <br />Such principles are most absurd, — <br />I care not who first taught 'em; <br />There's nothing known to beast or bird <br />To make a solemn autumn. <br />In solemn times, when grief holds sway <br />With countenance distressing, <br />You'll note the more of black and gray <br />Will then be used in dressing. <br />Now purple tints are all around; <br />The sky is blue and mellow; <br />And e'en the grasses turn the ground <br />From modest green to yellow. <br />The seed burrs all with laughter crack <br />On featherweed and jimson; <br />And leaves that should be dressed in black <br />Are all decked out in crimson. <br />A butterfly goes winging by; <br />A singing bird comes after; <br />And Nature, all from earth to sky, <br />Is bubbling o'er with laughter. <br />The ripples wimple on the rills, <br />Like sparkling little lasses; <br />The sunlight runs along the hills, <br />And laughs among the grasses. <br />The earth is just so full of fun <br />It really can't contain it; <br />And streams of mirth so freely run <br />The heavens seem to rain it. <br />Don't talk to me of solemn days <br />In autumn's time of splendor, <br />Because the sun shows fewer rays, <br />And these grow slant and slender. <br />Why, it's the climax of the year,— <br />The highest time of living!— <br />Till naturally its bursting cheer <br />Just melts into thanksgiving.<br /><br />Paul Laurence Dunbar<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/merry-autumn/
