There is something in the autumn that is native to my blood—

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 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.

Bliss Carman 1861-1929