It’s fall now, but to me, it isn’t really autumn until the first frosty morning, when the floor boards are like ice to my bare feet and a glaze of white frost tips each blade of grass on the yard. Below is my personal favorite autumn poem, A Vagabond Song, by William Bliss Carman. It's so beautifully visual.
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. | |
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| 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. | |
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| 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. - Wm Bliss Carman
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