From the Gypsy

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
Of bugles going by,
And my lonely spirit thrills
To see the frosty asters
like smoke upon the hills.

There is something in October
sets the gypsy blood astir,
We must rise and follow her,
When from every hill of flame

She calls and calls each vagabond by name.

Bliss Carman