A Vagabond Song
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.
DayPoems Poem No. 1266
<a href="http://www.daypoems.net/poems/1266.html">A Vagabond Song by Bliss Carman</a>
The DayPoems Poetry Collection, www.daypoems.net
Timothy Bovee, editor
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