Something to Hold You Through the Long, Endless Summer

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.