The rose hips lay now upon barren thorn, their velvet draping gone-
and see the red breasted soldier sit, to trill the chill of dawn.
But mourn not now, the morn has come, and ere the golden light-
that dance among the hickory and sets the world aright.
The arrant leaves still fall anon, reveling in their dance-
their candy coated splendor show for those who spare a glance.
So hasten now to the spitting flames, around which we huddle tight-
while we spin some scary tales, to give the little ones a fright.
And oh the winds that whip up leaves and tussle up ones hair –
I would dwell always if I could, in my autumn fair.