Crimson red, orange, or gold just fading,
Beneath the ceaseless blue sky,
The sun's sharp rays cascading.
Upon the ground loose-carpeted,
With soft, shifting leaves,
It seems so like a dream,
In the stillness beneath the eaves.
Like no spring fresh nor summer hot,
Nor winter white and bitter cold,
The dreaminess of an autumn day,
Hits another part of the soul.
Lovely to get lost in woods,
Where mind's eye meets reality,
In brisk coolness under bright sunshine,
With a hint of beyond in what we see.
Seeming such a place unreal,
Where a restless mind might wander,
Walk away from what we know,
And stand a time asunder.
See the bright sun strike,
The way the shadows fall,
Amidst bright branches and dun carpet,
There is something of a vision in its call.
Perhaps, many years ago,
Another soul stood here,
Thinking of a dream he once had,
That this autumn day did mirror.
Or an ever-wary hunter,
May have softly, stealthily tread,
Beholding it with keen eyes of steel,
As, to listen, he had halted.
But, then, we may be the first,
To walk this stretch of ground,
Where only windy hands deign touch the leaves,
That stir with hardly a sound.
We could sit and share this dream,
As the sun sinks and leaves softly fall,
And in each others arms,
The crisp air shall bite us not at all.
