If I could paint you the autumn color, the melting glow upon all things laid,
The violet haze of Indian summer, before its splendor begins to fade,
When scarlet has reached its breathless moment, and gold the hush of its glory now,
That were a mightier craft than Titian's, the heart to lift and the head to bow.
See where it lies by the lake this morning, our autumn hillside of hardwood trees,
A masterpiece of the mighty painter who works in the primal mysteries.
A living tapestry, rich and glowing with blended marvels, vermilion and dun,
Hung out for the pageant of time that passes along an avenue of the sun!
The crown of the ash is tinged with purple, the hickory leaves are Etruscan gold,
And the tulip-tree lifts yellow banners against the blue for a signal bold;
The oaks in crimson cohorts stand, a myriad sumach torches mass
In festal pomp and victorious pride, when the vision of spring is brought to pass.
So men dream of a far-off heaven of power and knowledge and endless joy,
Asleep to the moment's fine elation, dull to the day's divine employ,
Musing over a phantom image, born of fantastic hope and fear,
Of the very happiness life engenders and earth provides — our privilege here.