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 "November" sets the
Gypsy blood astir;
We must follow her,
When from every hill aflame,
She calls and calls each vagabond by
name.