A Vagabond Song

When my friend Geri saw the photo of a glorious tree that I snapped the other day at Beaver Lake, she was reminded of a poem called A Vagabond Song. I am not normally one for poetry, but every once in a while I come across one that grabs my attention and my heart, and this poem did just that. I am so pleased that Geri shared it with me and now I am going to share it with you:

     A Vagabond Song
     By Bliss Carman (1861-1929)

     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 a 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.

"The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry of bugles going by" - enough said.