A Vagabond Song by Bliss Carman

There is something in the autumn which 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 my like a cry
Of bugles going by.
And my lonely spirit thrills
To see the frosty asters like a smoke upon the hills.

There's 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.